#how to control husband mantra

[howtoexloveback]

How To Control Husband by Black Magic

How To Control Husband by Black Magic

Black Magic Tips To Control Husband or tricks to attract husband can be use to control husband mind by black magic. We will provide you solution about your question about how to do black magic on husband at home? Black magic tips to control husband. Every woman wants her husband to listen to her. A lot of times. Men do some things that make women angry or unhappy. That is why a lot of women look…

[bamgyw]

˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ c.bg; six nights ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

summary: six nights of emo boy gyu sneaking into your room without your daddy knowing. aberrational catholic guilt ridden catcher in the rye wannabe porn document. afab reader x softdom!beomgyu. warnings: everything, unfortunately. minors dni. heavy smut ahead. lots of pretentious writing, too. catholic guilt and imagery. abusive behaviour, parental neglect. drug use. violence. everyone is sad. i’ll keep on updating part-specific tags. index: prologue: the house of god, first night, second night, third night, fourth night, fifth night, sixth night, dawn of the seventh.

prologue: the house of god

when daddy wanted to hide something from you, he would turn to his beloved bible. and ever since you turned fourteen, he had been holding on to a passage that he would repeat to you every night before going to sleep: 

"let no one say when tempted, "i am being tempted by god," for god tempts no one. but each person is tempted when lured by his own desire. then desire gives birth to sin, and sin brings forth death."

that is the only sex talk your daddy ever gave you. it was more of a sex mantra than a talk, or a warning, or even a prohibition. just a rule of nature that he wanted you to have engraved in your mind: desire is sin, and sin is death.

when daddy didn't want you to do something, he'd blame the rule on god. and there's little you could say against that. 

as you grew up, you realised that god might not be real, but daddy most certainly was. a punitive, disciplinary god. and one feels much more compelled to obey divine rule when god lives under your roof. when you can touch him, and he can touch you.

when god lives in your house and his wrath can tear your flesh apart not in hell, not in heaven, but in this life; you become more cautious than the most devoted of christians. so even when everyone in your grade started drinking, dating, having sex; you had it very clear that the priority was to protect yourself. not from the dangers of drinking, dating, or sex; but from daddy, that is to say, from god.

none of your friends from school understood it, that the fear of god was not irrational. you had scars and bruises that god had given you which you could perfectly show them. but then daddy would get in trouble. besides, he wouldn't like you showing your body around. 

none of them could ever understand what living with god was like, so they were the kind of people who would ask that stupid question; if god loves us, why does he hurt us? 

the first person to understand god was a boy called choi soobin. 

daddy had remarried choi soobin’s mom the year before you started college. she was a beautiful woman, lively and hopeful to start a second life after becoming a widow. it must be thrilling to get a chance at a second life when your first one has gone wrong. soobin’s mom could have been very happy in another universe. you felt sorry that she had stepped into daddy‘s trap. 

you had always wondered how daddy had managed to get a woman like her. bright, cultured and affectionate. but then you figured that maybe, as he was god, he didn't necessarily need to be yahweh, or elohim. he could also be zeus and disguise himself as a swan to kidnap and rape leda. 

you found out later that soobin‘s mom had never fully recovered from the passing of her first husband, and she often suffered from major depressive episodes. daddy saw that void in her, and her urgency to fill it. he forced himself into the hollowness of the void, and obstructed her veins, bones, and heart with the word of god.

soon enough, soobin’s mom had no limb or internal organ she controlled herself. she had once had colours, you remembered; rosy cheeks, a hazel head of hair, lips tinted with vibrant red. but daddy had turned her grey. 

soobin’s mom had been kind enough to see the good sides of daddy, you had liked her for that. but you regretted that she hadn't learned to hide her colors so that daddy couldn't steal them away, like you did. 

she became a shadow of herself, an almost non-verbal phantom trapped between the real world –that is, the confines of daddy's house– and the world of hopeful prayers and the salvation of soul.

the boy called choi soobin would never forgive daddy for that. but it was alright. you understood. in a sense, he had killed his mom. you had to love daddy because he had created you, but you didn't think choi soobin was obliged to. 

people said choi soobin had changed, too. that he used to be a gentle kid, polite and sweet, but he had turned hostile. that, like most teens, he had become self-absorbed and belligerent without a cause or that he had gotten those adolescent mood changes so late in his life because he was an attention seeker. people say things like that when they don't understand what living with god is like.

you were the only one who didn't believe daddy when he said that soobin had a demon inside. you knew better than that, you knew that daddy saw demons everywhere. but soobin’s own mom believed it. when daddy tried to exorcise the demon away from soobin with fist and blood, she looked away.

all that soobin had wanted by acting up against daddy was to save his mom. to bring her back from the dead. but after that betrayal, he stopped trying. 

soobin had never been violent towards you, though. not once. not even mean. you were the only one who understood him, the only one who told him he wasn't evil. you knew that god's tyrannical rule could break a person, fill them with hate. and so soobin and you became close, often talking against god. every whispered defamation, every blasphemy, the danger of it felt so exciting. not because of the mischievous sin, or because of the disobedience, but because you felt like you could speak your mind at last.

your first kiss was soobin. you felt loved when it happened, something you realised you weren't used to. the feeling bloomed throughout the following week as you hid from god's watchful eye to be together.

soobin told you a hundred times that you were the most beautiful girl in the world, kissing all over your face, clasping you as close to him as he humanly could. he would sneak his hand under your skirt and whisper, "don't think about him right now. it's just you and me." and though his touch never went very far in the magnitude scale of sin and punishment, it was enough to breathe a new life into you.

you sensed that a big part of why soobin wanted you so bad was because he got turned on at the idea of defying daddy, and groping his holy daughter was the greatest offence he could commit. but that was alright. you felt the same way. and you hoped that that hate-induced lust would turn into love, in time. you could then be happier, even in the house of god. 

or you could have been happier. because god is omnipresent. and he would soon act to see you separated. the blossoming flower was brutally ripped from the soil.

when daddy found out, he locked himself into the master bedroom with soobin one morning and didn't let him go until the sun began to hide. soobin left that room broken and dead in life, just like his mom, but he didn't have one single bruise. maybe daddy really was god, after all.

soobin never talked to you again. spoken, yes, but it was hollow. you never felt loved again. you learned a lesson that day: your pleasure brings pain to everyone around. the mantra became true. desire is sin, and sin is death.

so if there was any need left in your body to touch, to kiss, to lick, to possess or be possessed; you confined it to the darkest pit of your ribcage, way past your heart, never to be accessed again. 

until choi beomgyu came around.

he was the second person to understand god. but he had brought his lesson learned from home. he knew god’s ways even before he met daddy. he had a god of his own. you called yours daddy, he called his ‘that narcissistic sadist’. but strangely enough, you felt like they meant the same thing. 

choi beomgyu was sort of soobin's friend, if you could even call it that. they never labeled each other as such, never sought out each other's company for the sake of friendship. they just wanted to live through their loneliness while sitting in the same room.

beomgyu’s dad was a dealer. he made a living out of ruining people's lives, as beomgyu saw it. growing up, he had promised himself that he would never be like that, the kind of person who doesn't care about poisoning someone's body if that meant keeping the cash flowing. but as he grew up, he learned that it wasn't all black or white. that all of those fools kept showing at his father’s doorstep, like they had no other choice. like they enjoyed hurting themselves. 

beomgyu, like soobin, had become hateful. one of the things that bothered him the most was the "why me?" question. how unlucky he could have been to be born of such a father. but then again, he could run away. he could sort his shit out, get a job, never see his father again. but he kept going back. like he had no choice. like he, too, enjoyed hurting himself.

his dad barely knew he existed, and if beomgyu ever tried to make himself heard, he would silence him in cold blood. so any semblance of love or validation beomgyu could aspire to, he sought out with mathematically strategised plans. he craved the drug of attention and knew exactly where to get it.

he'd linger around fancy schools and church events, scoping out a certain type of girl. there was always a few of them going through a rebellious phase, desperate to go out with a bad boy and piss off their high-official dad. 

it didn't take much effort for him to get what he wanted. he was handsome enough to make it easy, and even though he was a spiteful nihilist, he could be charming on command. just a smirk, a tousle of the hair, and some cheesy lines like, "i'm messed up, but with you, i feel like maybe i could be better," or "you're too beautiful for a screw-up like me." and he would have them wrapped around his finger. 

he would bring them over to his place and fuck them rough on his drug-money-bought mattress. if there was shouting, or a gunshot coming from another part of the house, he'd fuck into them harder, muffling their fear with a rough kiss, using their panic to fuel his own twisted thrill. you fucking scared? i've gone through this crap every day since i was a kid. 

if he could crack the shell of a privileged princess, dragging someone along with him down to his mud, his pain would slightly numb out.

for just a little, but never enough.

that pattern of behavior didn't lead to happiness. not even to satisfaction. it was a vindictive way of muffling his pain with the aching moans of someone who had it easier. but in reality, it only pierced what was left of his soul, making him even more hollow. it was soobin who made him realize that.

until that day, beomgyu saw soobin as almost a kid—pitifully weak and too sheltered. but when he told him about his exploits of going after posh girls, soobin didn't applaud in shared bitterness as he often did.

beomgyu explained to him how hard he got seeing the fear in their eyes as they realised that the life he led, that freedom of the rebel, wasn't as cute and bohemian as they had romanticised.

soobin responded curtly. "and then what? you cum, the spell wears off and you stare at the ceiling in silence, thinking of how miserable you are." he said. "and then you feel guilty for being a piece of shit and using that girl as a blow-up doll. and because of that you feel even worse about yourself, which means becoming more hateful and ruining more people. its not a you thing, you're not that special. that loop has been said and done. probably how your dad feels after beating on you."

beomgyu was taken aback. he didn’t even find it in himself to get offended. he remained pensive for a while before saying, "hyung. do you think i'm a bad person?"

soobin replied; "i think you can choose not to be."

and beomgyu took the advice. he put an end to the hunter-gathering of rich girls. he respected soobin from then on, too. soobin had therefore been a good influence, one could say. or at least an influence beomgyu was willing to accept. he started hanging around your house more, to the point of almost never leaving.

you learned about him as if he were a mythological figure—someone everyone talked about but whose existence you couldn't confirm. as a friend of soobin, beomgyu was bound from the start by an unspoken rule to maintain the least possible contact with you.

beomgyu was made aware of that rule very early on. what he didn't know, because he had been misled, was your age. that's why he didn't think much of it at first; he thought you were a kid. so, whatever—he couldn't talk to soobin’s annoying little stepsister. big deal. he didn't care about kids anyway.

this, combined with the prison-like structure of daily life in that house—minimal time in common areas and endless hours rotting in your own cell—fulfilled daddy's command to keep your life and soobin's, and therefore boemgyu’s, completely separate.

but even though you hadn't seen choi beomgyu in person, you had been able to construct a fairly accurate forensic portrait of him, pieced together from your father's warnings about people like him.

about the piercings, daddy believed that the body is holy, and anyone capable of mutilating within sin. about the music they played when locked up for whole afternoons in soobin’s room, he believed that god is serene, and disturbing that peace is a sign of the devil. he considered long hair on a man an abomination, and much like the eccentric clothes, a mark of a sodomite.

daddy didn't approve of him, and saw him as no more than a threat to the sanctity of his home. but beomgyu was quick to remedy the situation.

beomgyu was most acquainted to the ways of gods. he knew they were capricious, proud and pathologically narcissistic. so he made sure daddy could see he was a troubled young man and played the role of the lamb seeking guidance. he convinced daddy that he could abduct him, like he had done with soobin and his mother.

when soobin recounted the scene to you, his voice had sounded more hopeful, more full of admiration than you had ever heard. "he went to your dad and talked to him as if he was the buddha. said that he was lost and needed someone to guide him on the right path." soobin said. "he had some quotes from the prodigal son parabole learned, and he just delivered so naturally. not a trace of shame because when he lied to his face like that. it was like watching a play. your dad bought everything."

from then on, beomgyu became an unsung hero in your eyes. the boy who had outmanipulated daddy into having it his way. the boy who had defeated god.

around halloween that year, beomgyu and his dad had a terminal fight. it ended on a threat so destructive that beomgyu thought it was for the better if he stayed away from his father's place for a couple days. maybe a week. soobin, knower of the impotence and humiliation of having to sleep under the roof of the one who lacerated you and torn you to pieces, offered him shelter.

daddy's eyes lit up with greed. he saw the definitive chance to welcome a prodigal son into the fold. for beomgyu it was almost a joke. he was amused at how fast daddy allowed him in. so clueless and hasty, like one of the girls he used to charm into his bed.

in truth, beomgyu wasn't even to blame when he inevitably bumped into you. it had been daddy's mistake, he had let him in himself. you thought maybe that made daddy more human, somehow. that he forgot to close the back door to the prison and the devil strolled in.

but it wasn't really a matter of having let his guard down. daddy was still as stern, still as disciplinary, still as paranoid as he had always been. choi beomgyu was just much smarter than daddy.

he was a demigod, he was a promise. he was soon to make you his.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ next part

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ please let me know if you think reading about booty sex is gross (i'm doing market research)

[dudeandduchess]

Kyōjurō x F!S/O: Kiss It Better (SFW Scenario, Fluff)

Sub-genre: Hurt/Comfort Note: I was a bit inspired, and also a bit in my feels. This is a bit of a different take on Kyōjurō; a look behind the veil, per se...

***

There were days in Kyōjurō’s life when it all just felt… off. His usual demeanour was not enough to stave off the imminent feelings of sadness within him, no matter how hard he tried. And no amount of psychoanalysing himself— and repeating over and over in his head that he was not supposed to be down, or in any way upset, was simply not cutting it.

Those days were the most difficult, in his opinion. But he could never say it out loud; all because he always thought that admitting it aloud was unnecessary. There were other, more important, things to be done— so he had to push through.

With that same mantra in mind, the blond wiped the sweat that beaded at his forehead; closing his eyes, and exhaling a soft sigh that didn’t help to ease the tightness that he felt in his chest.

He could also feel the tears pricking at the backs of his eyes, but he put all his effort into suppressing them. After all, the afternoon sun still hung high up in the sky; it wouldn’t have boded well for anyone to see him deep in the trenches of his own melancholy.

No matter how hard he tried to keep telling himself to resume with his daily training routine though, his body simply would not cooperate. So, he found himself throwing the proverbial towel in— making his way towards the engawa, and taking a seat.

It was a desperate effort to keep his inner turmoil in control, but taking that break only served to make it roil inside him even more.

He could feel everything within him just clawing to get out— to make itself known to the world and introduce them to his inner misery— yet he held tight to keep his composure.

After all, he’s done it before. So, he can do it again… and again; no matter how many times it was necessary.

“Kyō, I saw that you were taking your break, so I brought some tea…” (Y/n) announced softly, as she stepped out onto the engawa.

Her eyes traced over the contours of her husband’s bare back, appreciating every line of muscle that undulated with his minuscule movements. Yet, her appreciation was cut short when she felt the heaviness coming off of him in droves.

She knew that he was trying to put up a tough façade, and it made her heart ache; just knowing that he was suffering and was trying to bury it deep within himself.

Gingerly, (Y/n) set the tray of tea down on the spot next to her husband, before kneeling right behind him. Then slowly, as gently as she could— as if he was going to break if she moved gruffly— she wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

“I love you, Kyō, and I’m so, so incredibly proud of you,” The young woman whispered next to Kyōjurō’s right ear, before leaning down to press a kiss to the side of his face— down to his jaw, the side of his neck, and eventually down to his bare shoulder. “You never have to go through this alone.”

Kyōjurō wasn’t exactly sure if it was his wife’s words, or the mere feel of her comforting arms around him, but he felt the first vestiges of tears begin to roll down his cheeks. And eventually, he leaned back against her and closed his eyes, as he let his tears fall freely.

The tightness in his chest didn’t fully subside, but it was getting more and more bearable with every passing second.

He then lifted his left hand up, and gently curled his fingers around (Y/n)’s left wrist; finding more comfort in touching her.

No words had to be said to (Y/n), as everything that she needed to know was conveyed through that one action alone. It was a small gesture that spoke volumes: Thank you. I love you. I need you.

“I’ll always be here for you, Kyō. Forever… and ever…. and ever. I promise,” The young woman reassured in the softest tone that she could muster, despite her impending tears making her throat feel all thick and mucky.

She then pressed another kiss to Kyōjurō’s shoulder, before pressing her cheek against the spot that she had just graced with her lips; remaining quiet as she allowed her husband to have his moment of private solace in her arms.

“I love you, Kyōjurō.”

[echantedtoon]

Ocean Deep Ch15 Mers And Ladies P2

(Warnings: Mentioning of Yn's wounds and getting stabbed, blood mention, kidnapping mentions, etc. 

This was the emotional turmoil I warned you about.

Also important info: Mermaid partners will play chase when courting. Why? Because I said so and it's cute.)

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The wounds that cut the deepest were never physically.

Even as warm flesh met in a timid embrace. Lips molding in desperation and ferocity. Molding and meshing together as if this were their last moments on earth.

The sounds of weeping was never a good sign but oh- Oh how beautiful those cries were as he buried himself into the sweet honey taste of the glossy lips. The cries like a beautiful lullaby finally lulling his heart- No. His very soul to ease at last. A little hug going through the chest and shushing the throbbing pain like a wee babe trilling out. Loud sobs echoed throughout the destruction of the night. Passing over waves and bouncing off floating shreds of wood planks. 

The warmth of the water feeling nothing but cold. 

Sounds. Noises. Tones. Pitches. Frequencies.  He knew them all.

So why did it take him so long to realize that the only one sobbing here was him? Why didn't he notice the way he was letting his eyes talk for him? Why didn't he feel the way he had placed himself against her flesh? Forehead to collar bone. Hands and arms tightly clutching onto the pale wet flesh as the eyes shown down brightest in the moonlight.

"Tengen... What have you done?"

Stung. Worse than a manta Ray's jab. Still stinging. 

Sobbing. Crying. No stopping the tears that caught the moonlight. Like little stars twinkling down his face and joining the sparkling of the waves. 

Worlds collided and evaporated. Taking all rational thoughts with it. Pleas of echoing lingering self resentment clouding judgement, pride be damned.

"Dont leave me again don't leave again!! Please I beg of you do not leave me again! I can't lose you!"

Lungs burnt in panic beyond comprehension. He couldn't think clearly. He felt like he was burning in a fire while also frozen so numb in ice he lost all feeling. Sobbing wracking the heavy frame as it clung onto the smaller form like a lifeline. If he let go he would tumble and spiral out of control with nothing to stop him. Nothing to cushion his fall. 

"I have nothing else. I don't want to lose this. I can't lose you all again! PLEASE! You're the only good thing I have!!"

They were the only thing he could love. He didn't want to lose the light that had finally arrived back into his heart. They must hate him. Hate, hate, HATE HIM for everything he put them through. Everything he let happen. He was worthless. Unworthy. Useless. Horrible.

"I only wanted you safe! I swear...I'm sorry. Imsorryimsorryimsorryimsorry! Forgive me. Please don't leave me!"

Please don't leave him. Please don't hate him. Please let him make up for everything. As long as they stayed. 

"I LOVE YOU! I love you, I love you, I love you so much you don't understand!"

Stay. Please. Say they'll stay now. Please don't let his mind be playing tricks on him. Please don't let him wake up and find out this was nothing but a sick nightmare to mock him for his sins. 

"I promise I'll be better! I'm sorry I'm sorry! I'll be a better husband I swear! Just don't go! I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry-"

'Im sorry.' A mantra repeated like a prayer over and over in his broken voice. Broken up into pieces like shattered glass in chokes and sobbing. 

"Tengen..."

He wasn't even aware of who he had grabbed in the un-clarity. He just remembers two hands, so tiny but much stronger than his broken miserable body all together, grabbing the glistening sides of his head. Weakened by the force of a thousand failures. He didn't want to let her go. He had enough clarity to realize that whoever she was wasn't Kyojuro. He sobbed. He's sobbing he hadn't stopped. He couldn't stop. Not even when sweet lips met his swallowing up the next sob that dropped from his throat. Scooping it up and turning it into muffled chokes and whines. It's been so long. Too long since he felt a loving touch.

A most intimate touch only shared by lovers. 

One he didn't deserve. Shouldn't be given. Yet he accepted like a drowning man desperate for a taste of the sweet oxygen. 

All that could be heard was the muffled chokes. Like he was trying to gasp for that air but his throat was clogged beyond saving. He couldn't stop. The dam had burst and there was nothing to save himself. The screams from the past still echoed. Haunting him back to the visions of them disappearing and unable to do anything. So helpless. So worthless. 

Unworthy. 

He couldn't stop the choke that forced him to pry himself away from the saving grace that was her embrace. A hiccup, messy and loud, not helping his feelings. Eyes stinging in fear for what he'll see. Afraid it'll be nothing but air and he had just been imagining the whole thing. Gone insane with grief or worse- It'll be nothing but a desperate dream by a man who's failures costed him everything. Coasted them all everything!

Through the staining tears-

Through the haze-

In the dark-

Lit up by nothing but the moonlight-

Barely visible-

Blue eyes shown up at him big and bright.

"O-Oh my God..Oh my go-ha-haaad. Suma! SUMA!!"

Blue eyes, MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN ANY SAPPHIRE, and a face more welcome than his own father was there. 

She was here.

She was ok.

SHE WAS ALIVE!

Her name felt like a holy prayer for the tongue. He couldn't stop the voice from yelling despite the closeness. If the voice hurt her ears she didn't show. Only proceeding to tear up with tears more meaningful than any other time than she's ever cried before.

"No, Tengen. D-Don't cry! If you start t-t-then I'm go-gonnaaa- Ahhahahaaaaaa!!" Beautiful. Her crying was always beautiful but now it was more beautiful than any dammed song or instrument in the world. 

He choked again. He couldn't say anything but choke on his own stupid breathing as she wailed and hung onto his face. Someone joined them. The most beautiful gold orbs ever that was more valuable to him than all the gold in the world. 

"Ma..Mak-k-"

He couldn't finish. Both literally as the chokes claimed him and because he was not worthy to say her name let alone be in her presence. Gold and Sapphire. Sobbing and tearing up. He felt his flesh burn in shame and guilt as multiple arms surrounded his weak failure of a body, keeping him aloft as he lost himself once more sobbing uncontrollably and feeling a fist smashed into his heart only to creep up through his skin and clench around his throat from the inside as a perfect little Ruby joined the Gold and Sapphire. A gutteral, and absolutely pathetic noise left him. Somehow sounding more pathetic by how tight the fist clutched his throat. He tried to talk. He wanted to declare his apologies for his sins so badly-

"Tengen." A soft small hand pushed the quivering bottom lip back up to meet the upper even more quivering lip. "Baby, don't. It's alright now. Shh."

Choking. Hiccuping as the arms wrapped around him fully. Tightly and making sure to NOT let him go. To NOT let him leave. They were saying 'youre ours and you're going to stay right here whether you like it or not.'  He couldn't break away even if he wanted to. 

"You're alright. You're ok now. We got you."

He held on tightly. All one, two, three of them were here. Safe. Alive. It wasn't a dream. It wasn't his mind playing cruel games! Rocking back and forth and burying himself into their warmth. So soft. Smelt of fresh air and flowers. Beautiful. They were his. He was theirs. And he wanted nothing more than to allow them to reclaim him and keep him eternally. 

"Tengen?"

Time froze still. His rocking ceased. The waters fell deathly silent once again. And then puffy, bloodshot red eyes snapped on a swivel towards the one who frowned at him with fiery eyes.

"You...WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU?!" A voice, loud and very on edge reverberated throughout the night. Puffing with unrestrained nights of stressful sleep and rising paranoia from the mind. 

"I understand you must be very angry with me-" 

"YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT I'VE FELT!!" Kyojuro said nothing in defense in the brief silence after the declaration. A full minute of angry gasping and heaving. Edging closer to falling over the hold their wives had on him. A shaking hand raised accusingly and rightfully so. "HOW THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I FELT?! YOU WERE ALL I HAD LEFT AND YOU DECIDED TO DO WHAT I EXPLICITLY TOLD YOU NOT TO DO! YOU LEFT ME ALONE AND I HAD NO IDEA HOW TO PROCESS THIS!!..." The choking returned. Voice loosing whatever bitter bite the tongue tasted and devolving into nothing but sobs. "Dammit, Kyo...Do you know what you made me think?! W-What I felt when you left me?!.."

Whatever might've been said was lost. A warm cheek pressing into his shaking hand had him choking on whatever he might've said next. Red eyes, sorrowful, guilty, regretful, and on the verge of collapsing into tears too gazed hard into his.

"I'm so sorry, my love."

"DON'T YOU DO THAT AGAIN!! DON'T YOU EVER FUCKING DO THAT TO ME AGAIN!! DO YOU HEAR ME!? YOU COULD'VE DIED! YOU COULD'VE DIED A-AND I WOULDN'T HAVE EVEN KNOWN!! I SHOULD'VE BEEN THERE!! IT SHOULD'VE BEEN ME W-WHO'D-.."

He couldn't finish. It should've been him from the very beginning to take their fate. At least then he would've done what he should've done as a good husband. There was a pure moment of relieving bliss surrounded by warmth and love. Crying too yes but he didn't care for him or how he looked in that moment..

Until the smell of thick copper finally registered in his nose.

B L O O D

Bloodshot eyes shot back open. No. NO. EVERYTHING WAS SUPPOSED TO BE OK NOW!! SOMETHING WASN'T RIGHT! The blinking eyes shot around the abyssal horrid darkness searching for the source quickly and panicked-

Until they fell upon Kyojuro. 

And the red splattering his body. The red staining his hands and arms. 

AND THE UNCONSCIOUS HUMAN THAT SLUMPED AGAINST HIS CHEST.

There was nothing but silent stares until the others in mixed reactions found out quickly the reason for his sudden stoic face. 

"W h a t  t h e  f u c k  i s  t h i s?"

Kyojuro for once looked almost panicked. "Tengen, we can explain." He choked out quickly under the intensity of the face he gave her.

"I think I'd like that actually." A hand, still shaking uncontrollably, pointed at the way Kyojuro's hand bunched up and tightly held the pretty yellow fabric of a once nice dress stained by red. Most likely the source of the blood the Kyojuro was trying to prevent from leaking out. "Why the hell are you holding that human?!" 

"Tengen, I promise we will explain everything to you but right now she needs attention! We must get her to the doctors now!"

A sneer. "Leave her on the beach! Someone will find her or she'll wake up and go home herself!"

"We can't just abandon her! She's wounded!" His husband's look was panicked. Extremely afraid. "LOOK FOR YOURSELF!" As if to convince him, he turned to nudge up the obvious bleeding gash in the unconscious woman. "She won't make it if we don't do something."

Tengen said nothing. Nothing but stare at the pitiful and weak girl in his arms....He admitted Kyojuro was right. The wound wasn't deep and the bleeding wasn't bad but she'd most likely not survive the night if left to herself or perhaps a wild creature would be attracted to the blood and easy prey. She was more pitiful than the man who threatened them.

He knew that man's face. 

His voice.

He was the one who mocked him from the shoreline and thrived on his pain when his cursed bloodline stole his lovers from him. 

He was not going to survive to do it again.

However...

He didn't recognize this woman. He leaned forward giving a deep inhale. He smelt blood obviously, and salt and water on her drenched body. Some cotton from her fabric, and then finally her own unique scent. One whiff and he was able to conclude that she was never any of the people that he took out or who wronged him before. A total stranger. A third smell got him confused.

There was a plethora of all kinds of different smells on her body. Blood, salt, water, cotton- But also the faint scent of flowers, and other plants, and strangely enough the scents of his lovers. Mostly Makio on her arms and hands and Kyojuro as he held her, but there was also softer traces of both Suma and Hinatsuru too.

....How odd.

However he fully stopped. The scent of THAT MAN was there too. On one place. Under the blood and Kyojuro's hand desperately trying to save her. Did-..

Was he responsible for this?

"Tengen, please."

"....Press down on the wound tightly. It's a long trip and if she's going to make it then she'll need all the blood she can keep in her body." 

He hoped he didn't regret this kindness.

"WHAT?!"

You stared at Tengen as he continued to casually stare at you before shrugging again. You sputtered opening and closing your mouth before shaking your head and just looking out again at the blue horizon. Still no signs of land anywhere. This-..It-

"T-There's gotta be some kind of mistake." You looked back to him wet hair clinging to your face and shoulders. "Did you say that I'm on an island?"

His smile widened. "THE biggest out of the three I own!" He huffed proudly before a single finger pointed up. "I own the entire west beach where you first came from. It became mine after I drove all those humans away and claimed it for myself. I also own these three islands off it and at least five miles of ocean in all directions you see! It's a perfectly plentiful hunting ground for my pod and partners!" He hummed again and rubbed his chin. "In fact- Kyojuro's family just moved into the coral reef connected to my second island. Kyo wanted a safer place for his little brother to grow up and technically they're my in-laws-" He lit up perfectly happy again. "So my home is their home!"

"How the heck did you even manage to build a house on the beach when you can't walk on land?!" That's what confused you most.

"Oh that? Eh. This island used to be inhabited by people who fished like your town did." He waved a hand disregarding anything in concern with a bored look. "The guy who had this place before me ran them out and then I ran HIM out. I guess a few houses are still standing up."

Ok. Kinda creepy to know that you were really staying in what Used to be someone's house but that really the main concern here. Your main concern was why three girls who ended up disappearing, one girl who was Said to be carried off by a Naga, and a girl who was supposedly drowned two towns over were all stuck in a house way out in the middle of no where!

"Tengen." He hummed again glancing boredly at you from examining those sharp strangely Mitch matched claws of his. You hesitated a second before gesturing to the way you had walked from. "Why are those girls on your island?"

"Oh! Well besides this island being the biggest, there's a few houses left standing they can live in, it has a fresh water source for drinking, plenty of food-"

"That's not what I meant." Your waving hands caused him to pause in his island bragging again. "I meant WHY are they here?"....He blankly stared at you. "Why are they on your island and not home?"

He blinked. "They are home. What are you talking about?"

You wanted to facepalm yourself. "No. Why aren't they with their families?" He opened his mouth- "Their human families, Tengen!" You frowned harder.  "Everyone's been worried sick about them since they disappeared last year!" Your stomach felt tied in knots remembering the way you've seen Mr. and Mrs. Kocho cry over loosing all three of their children in one day. 

Tengen stared at you silently before he just shrugged making you gawk to the nonchalant reaction to the situation. "I dunno really. It's not my business."

"What do you mean? They're living on YOUR island aren't they?!"

He stretched his arms placing them behind his head. "I mean yeah. Can't exactly make them live in the water with their puny lungs." Your eyes narrowed but he wasn't affected by this. "*sigh* Look. They're not my mates so I have no say in their relationships other than letting them stay where they won't get killed."

Wait... Relationships? He must've seen the expression your puzzled face was making because he groaned again before rolling his eyes.

"My pod mates. They're the ones who brought 'em here. Look. I dunno about humans where you come from, but here we don't really stick our noses into others' relationships."

"Wait. What do you mean that they were brought here?"

He shrugs with his arms still behind his head. "Just as I said. That Akaza fellow traded me a whole chest of jewels just to let that suck girl live here. Uh.. What's-Her-Name. Koko? Yuki? Something like that." He looked off to the side seemingly bored again. "She kept getting sick so Giyuu and Sanemi thought it'd be a good idea to kidnap some doctors but then they stayed- Then my problem started. Obanai said he'd go look for em on land!" He tutteted and made a sour frown. "But instead of being back my women, he ends up bringing back a pink haired girl who wound up beating my ass in a suplex!"

"*SNORT!*"

His head snapped to you narrow eyed and frowning as you turned away covering your face. "And what the hell is so funny?!"

What was so funny was the mental image of a petite woman like Mitsuri beating the scales of a giant merman supposedly strong enough to sink ships whole. But you only shook your head despite the smile on your face.

"N-Nothing. Nothing at all," you said between giggles at his obvious frown.

"It's not funny!" He shouted before quickly lowering his arms to ..Cross them and-

"Are you pouting like a child?" Some kind of sputtering noise escaped his throat making you laugh harder than before and his face turned red out of embarrassment.

"I am not pouting! Tengen Uzui does not pout like a pint sized minnow! You got that?!" Despite his annoyed face and look you couldn't help but end up laughing more, hugging your sides and trying not to jostle the hurt shoulder. "I MEAN IT! STOP! STOP YOUR LAUGHING!! IM THE MOST FLASHY AND TERRIFYING SEA CREATURE OF THE WEST SEAS!! IF I WANTED TO, I COULD SCARE YOU SO BAD YOU COULDN'T EVEN TAKE A BATH WITHOUT BEING SCARED OF ME!"

You wheezed for air not being able to breath. "Y-Yes. T-Tengen U-Uzui. *Snort* Lord of pouts A-And god of- Hahaha! Blushing-"

"I'M NOT INTO YOU!!" He sounded..panicked almost. His face a sudden ten shades redder. And he squawked out half stuttering. "LET'S GET THAT STRAIGHT! I MIGHT BE GRATEFUL BUT THAT DOESN'T MEAN YOU'RE SEDUCING ME! GET REAL! IF ANYTHING YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE IN AWE OF ME!!"

"Aw. You came all the way here to seduce me?", you teased not taking him seriously at all. 

"I-... THAT'S NOT-"

"Or do you want a 'medical kiss' too?" You teased again. Feeling a little better that you can get back at him in some way after all you went through. "I think I can arrange that.~"

Tengen absolutely froze solid. Big lashes on sparkling f/c orbs batting up at him as the soft face leaned in closer. The water droplets against her skin shown in the sunlight like a thousand tiny diamonds clung onto her. Her nightgown clinging to her showing off her figure as soft hands reached out to grabbed his burning cheeks. He couldn't move. Couldn't speak as she inched forever closer. Beautiful orbs going half lidded before closing and warm breath ghosting over him. His face reddened to a shade that rivaled that of an apple, he leaned forward enough to kiss your lips, eyes slowly closing as well- Before her head changed direction and she completely leaned away startling him into opening his as. Blinking as she stood in in giggles. 

"Consider that payback for your teasing. Now.."

 You walked away from his frozen form stopping halfway back down the rock to cross your arms and look around. There was the matter with getting off this island...Maybe the old town here, or what was left of it, had a leftover row boat or something. Or maybe Tengen or one of your friends could give you a ride back to shore? If not you were sure you could make a raft out of-

GROWL- 

You jumped at the sound of sudden rumbling. What THE- What was that? The skies were still clear so not thunder. Was that your stomach? You know you didn't have breakfast yet but you didn't think you were THAT hungry.

"So..THAT'S  how you want to initiate courtship huh?~ How flashy.~"

What?

You looked behind you but froze as you met wine red eyes. His pupils quickly switching between completely dialated and completely all black and round. His mouth in a playful EAGER smirk that nearly split his face. His body was in a pounce position similar to a cat's. Speaking of cat's his shoulders rolled like a cat about to pounce on prey. Face still blushing a mad red.

"Two can play at this game, Little Gem.~"

You squealed out as a large merman suddenly and without warning pounced towards you-

Scrraaaaappe. Scrraaaaappe. 

The soft sounds of a bristled broom swept across the floors and outside of the home. Sending the dust and dirt flying outside into the air in a small cloud of dust before it disappated into thin air. The waves softly rolling off the sand in rolls as the wind gently blew through. Sending pretty long black hair into her face. Her gentle voice giggled as it tickled her skin and she brushed it away-

"Kanae!" 

Pink eyes blinked-

"KANAE!"

Pretty pink eyes turned towards the source of the one calling out to her. A white head of hair bobbing amongst the water. The face of bloodshot black pupils scars staring intensely at her form in the doorway before-

The face stretched an unsure smile across his face as if he wasn't sure how to smile showing off nothing but fangs. A splash sending droplets over himself sounded off as a hand pushed into the air. In his grasp sparkled pretty strings of pearls and gem necklaces. 

"Look! I traded one of Uzui's girls for them! They're f-for you! Aren't they beautiful?!," he called desperately.

...A sad frown settled on her features as she turned- 

"WAIT, WAIT, WAIT!! L-LOOK!! I-I got something for your little sister too! Kanao  likes butterflies right?!" He desperately fumbled as she watched with the same sad, silence she always gave him. Shaking claws desperately picking out a small oddly shaped greenish gem. "Look! This kinda looks like one! I have six little brothers and sisters so I know how you must feel about them! I-I can be good to your family too! LOOK!!' The oddly shaped thing was held up with a frown from him. "Just-... Please don't ignore me anymore. I-I can give you anything you want! Just name whatever the hell you want and I'll get the dam thing!"

She didn't respond. Only looking back forward, and slowly walking back through the doorway. His heart felt like it broke into a million pieces as the noise of the door once again closing echoed in his mind. 

"Rejected again, Shinazugawa?"

A growl echoed over the waves before dangerously slit eyes snapped in the direction of the voice. "Fuck off, Obanai!"

Above the shore and gliding across the dry beach was a much longer but less powerful sea snake. The seemingly endless coils from where he had been wrapped up, sunbathing no doubt, uncoiled just enough to allow his torso to raise and look at him. 

He looked unfazed by his friend's anger as usual. "You think you would've learnt by now. That girl is never going to acknowledge you."

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, VENOM BREATH!! IT'S NOT LIKE YOU'RE MAKING ANY PROGRESS WITH YOUR PINK HAIRED CUPID ARE YA?!"

A hiss in place of a growl left narrowed slit eyes. "That'ssss none of your business."

"THEN DON'T GO POKING YOUR FANGED FACE INTO MINE!!"

"It'sss hard not too when you're so loud it wakes up fish all the way in fucking Antarctica!"

"Yeah?!" He pointed out a hand still clutching precious jewels. "At least I'm not as shitting as Lonerfish when it comes to-" He looked over and choked on his words. "OH WHAT THE FUCK?!"

Said snake turned and both comically felt their eyes bug out at the sight before them. A familiar looking blue and black tailed merman sat there looking bored out of his mind and silent as usual which wasn't really out of the ordinary. But what WAS our of the ordinary was the smiling lavender eyed woman squishing his cheeks over and over again as he did nothing to stop her from doing so. He seemed entirely unfazed by any of her poking and prodding of him. Until she said something to him...He mouthed something back which must've been the right thing to say because the girl smiled closed eyed and pleased with herself.

....

They both continued to stare.

"...Well...This day can't get any worse I suppose."

Obanai had spoken too soon.

A BLOOD CURDLING SHRIEK FILLED THE AIR!! 

Both men looked towards the left. Giyuu looked up startled and the girl snapped around startled. ..And all of them watched as a woman drenched to the bone and holding up the end of her nightgown running down the beach with a lovestruck koi tailed merman behind her.

"YOU SHOULD NOT BE ABLE TO MOVE THIS FAST ON LAND?!"

You voice was cut short when Uzui somehow used his arms to leap in front of you and skid to a stop making sand fly as he slid to a stop. You stopped nearly tripping over forward as he stared at you with such an intense look that was like a man falling in love after a hundred years of loneliness. Somewhere behind you a door slammed open hearing the screams, pink eyes blinked widely.

"What the hell has gotten into you people?!," you squealed out as he gave a sound between a deep chuckle and a loud purr. 

His muscles tensed as he smiled wider and again his shoulders did that rolling motion. "I did say I was flashier than anyone else didn't I?~"

He leapt. You squealed. And a moment later you found yourself wrapped up in big burly arms. Pulled against a rippled chest and looked up into the wine red eyes of a playfully blushing merman. 

He smiled brightly at his catch giving a pleased growl that had you freezing. Before he puckered his lips and leaned forward to kiss you-

"TENGEN UZUI!!" He paused still puckered, blinked, and looked over his shoulder at an angry pinked eyed woman. "WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!"

"Just a minute there-"

You opened your mouth only to freeze as a head of white hair snapped back to you and suddenly there was a warmth upon your lips-

[miley1442111]

hi, this is so random but can you do a story for bucky barnes from marvel? Like something angsty with him and reader being separated and she's a hydra agent but it's kind of just before infinity war. Like she was frozen too because she was a scientist and seen as a threat but also an asset and now she's like 'the new winter soldier' since he escaped hydra and she doesn't remember him, but then she does?

Thank you! 💓💓💓💓💓

thank you for submitting this, this inspired me to open up a marvel category!

I'll always find you, doll.- b.barnes

a/n: this is a fem reader but as per usual, imagine what you like :)

summary: your mission to get a hard drive from the avengers compound can only go well, right?

pairing: buckybarnes x reader

warnings: general marvel topics, mind control, fighting, hospitals, reader being seen as 'dangerous', general angst.

Everything was so loud. The gunshots, the punches being thrown at you and the ones you were throwing back. You were fighting a teenager in a spider-suit. Somewhere in the back of your head, you knew that was wrong, but you couldn’t even access the memory of your name. Only your orders remained. Get the hard drive.

You had fought your way through Agent Romanoff, Spider-boy, Agent Rhodes, Bird-man, and Bug-man. Next up was Stark and Captain America. The others were either dead or unconscious. 

“You don’t have to do this, let us help you,” the Captain spoke, his shield at the ready. 

“And why would I do that?” You asked, taking your knife from the holster on your waist.

“Because we have Barnes,” Stark cut in. 

“Who the hell is ‘Barnes’?” You spoke, then threw the knife. It hit the Captain before he could dodge and it lodged itself in his arm. He let out a groan of pain and pulled it out, ready to fight again. Stark relied on his suit and attempted blasting you, but you were too quick, jumping out of the way. 

After a long back and forth between you and the two men, Stark got close enough to drug you, and everything went black.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You woke up in a hospital bed with no recollection on how you got there. You rattled against the chains that held your hands, screaming for anyone. After a few hours of yelling, you realised no one was coming, and your body let itself sleep again.

You woke up again, to someone outside your room. 

“You have to let me see her!” A male voice. 

“No way Barnes,” Stark sighed. “She’s too dangerous like this. You’ll either set her off or make her angry-”

“She knows me,” Barnes shot back, cutting Stark off. 

“Oh, you mean the woman who flat out asked who the hell you were, that woman knows you?” Stark snarled. "we have bigger things to deal with, Thanos is coming!"

You stifled a groan at the throbbing pain in your muscles. You clearly had no medication, no IV, nothing.

“I'm well-aware of our current situation Tony. I'm also aware that some part of her knows me!” Barnes argued. “Just… let me see her, please. Even if she’s asleep. Please Tony, she’s my wife.”

Who the fuck was he talking about? 

Reich, Händler, Kohle, Regel, Atmosphäre, Markieren, Strafverfolgung, Haltung, Überfall, allmählich. 

Rich, dealer, coal, rule, atmosphere, mark, law enforcement, attitude, raid, gradually.

They played in your head like a pulsing mantra. You had never been one for speaking Russian, so you had German words. You hated the people that did this to you. The people that tortured you, the people that wiped your memories, the people that broke you. 

“Bucky, you’re going to end up killing yourself over this, don’t bother with her.”

Bucky. Your Bucky. 

Your Bucky was behind that door. Your husband. The man you loved so dearly before you were taken by Hydra. 

“Buck?!” you shouted, clarity pushing the fog in your brain away. You broke through your chains, the strength of the serum making it easy. “Bucky!” You screamed again, trying to get the door open. 

“Y/N?! Doll?!” He shouted back, opening the door. You launched yourself at him, wrapping your arms and legs around his torso in an all-consuming hug. “I thought you were dead,” he whispered into your neck as he hugged you. 

“I thought you’d never find me,” you sobbed into his neck. 

“I’ll always find you, doll,” he promised, holding you tighter. You pulled back a bit, tilting his head so you could kiss him. For the first time in 60 years, you kissed your husband. It felt good. His lips felt the same as they did on your wedding day. Yes, it was a quick wedding in a courthouse in 1942. Yes, most people thought that you were pregnant, or you were using him for army benefits. But none of it was true. You adored each other. You just couldn’t wait. You were so in love with each other.

“I love you,” you grinned against his lips, the kiss tasting of salty tears, though neither of you cared. 

“I love you too.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[marshmellowzz]

can i req a short scenario of muzan with a wife!reader (human or demon, it's up to you!) where they are just..so madly in love it's embarrassing for everyone else in the room (like the upper moons can't help but cringe at how in-love they are)? i've always found this idea funny lol

Like Lovesick Puppies

A/N- Hi anon, im sorry for the wait! Thank you for requesting, I had so much fun writing this short scenario, and I hope you like it!

The uppermoon meetings held a certain unprofessionalism— Mostly due to Douma’s incessant joking around, and the snide remarks that were thrown around without a second thought.

Muzan pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. He should have dismantled the uppermoons long ago— dealing with their childish dramatics and continuous failures to find the single flower he had been searching for was becoming too much to bare.

‘Remember, Muzan, you need them.’ Was a thought that repeated in his mind continuously, like a mantra.

As much as Muzan hated to admit it. The uppermoons were a great advantage to his side. They truly were his sole magnum opus.

His grip tightened on the flask he held, a slight crack appeared under the pressure of Muzan’s grip.

“Dearest, are you alright?” He paused at the sound of such a sweet, melodious voice that he recognized to be yours.

He inhaled.

He exhaled.

“No.” He admitted, he was not the type to beat around the bush, after all.

Before you could speak up, he continued.

“It’s been multiple decades—and these fools have done nothing of what I asked.” His voice lowered threateningly, the fortress trembling under the controlled vexation of his voice.

At this point, the Uppermoons had all silenced themselves—if not from instinct, then from the fear of getting punished by their Lord.

“I want the Ubuyashiki family dead—Yet, even that is too much to ask for, apparently.” Muzan spat, venom and sarcasm lacing his words. The flask completely shattered under Muzan’s grasp, and a prominent vein bulged out of his forehead.

He shot you a glance, observing your patient expression.

His attention was directed to you, now.

“I understand,” you simply said, hoping he’d calm down.

He shook off the broken remainders of flask onto his desk, any freshly made cuts healing instantaneously. He head towards you—grabbing your arm in a vice grip.

You winced, trying to hold your silence—you knew better than to question your husbands antics.

“You always understand me, don’t you?” His voice in a hushed tone, which was uncharacteristic for him.

His grip on your arm loosened, he nestled his nose into the crook of your neck, feeling the slow—yet shaky rise of your chest.

“I love you,” you whispered.

He hummed in approval.

“How much do you love me, hm?” He challenged, his hands beginning to wander, both finding a place onto your waist.

“More than all the stars in the sky,”

Gyutaro almost gagged,

Daki stared at her kin in horror, what the fuck is going on? written all over her face.

The languid strums of a biwa had soon filled the fortress, and Muzan had begun to sway you side to side.

He placed a small kiss on your nose, your giggles reverberating around the fortress along with the strums of the instrument.

“Would you die for me?” Muzan inquired, his hands fastened into your hips and waist.

“Yes,” was all you replied with.

Muzan hummed, revelling in this newfound information.

“You always know how to satisfy me, don’t you, dearest?” Muzan sighed, he had not a care in the world that his subordinates had first class seats to him and his wife’s love-fest.

He loves when you try soothing his frustrations,

He loves how you obediently do as he says,

He loves how you tell him what he wants to hear,

He loves you.

He’d never say it outloud, though.

“I am infatuated with you.” Muzan finally uttered, and even you found yourself feeling surprised. That was as close to an “I love you” as you’ll get.

Akaza nearly shriveled up and died right there, he looked around to observe the others—for once, he hoped he was not the only one seeing this at the moment.

Douma looked as carefree as ever, however, he was eerily quiet as he watched Muzan cradle you steadily.

“What the hell is going on?…” Gyokko poked a head out of his vase, watching the scene before him unravel. “Why are they doing that?...” He gestured towards you and Muzan, gazing into each others eyes like lovesick puppies.

“Gyokko.” Muzan started.

“Yes.”

“Shut up.”

“Oh, ok, of course, sorry.”

Ignoring Gyokko, Akaza glanced at Kokushibo, his usual indifferent expression visible—He wasn’t sure how Kokushibo could endure this torture, that took another kind of strength.

Perhaps that was why he was Uppermoon One.

“Muzan-sama…Are we…Dismissed?” Kokushibo spoke up, he clearly desired to leave, and to never speak of this again—nevermind, it seems that the amount of love between you and Muzan was too powerful for even Kokushibo to endure.

Akaza couldn’t help but humor the situation slightly.

“Get out of my sight.” Muzan spoke once again, finally giving them permission to leave.

For the first time, Akaza felt thankful towards Kokushibo, and his respect grew a tad bit more.

The whole ordeal also seemed to shut Douma up, so perhaps it wasn’t that bad.

They had all left without incident, and you and Muzan continued to embrace each other until Muzan was satisfied.

Nakime wanted to gouge her eyes out, but she stayed resilient, and continued to strum her biwa wordlessly.

[arting-block]

𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 (𝟐) | Eleventh Doctor x MCU!Sorcerer Reader

❝𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵—𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩—𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥?❞

Summary: Recovery and revelations.

Genre: Romance, AU/Crossover

Warnings: Mentions of anxiety, PTSD, graphic depictions of violence, mentions of killing, comfort

Words: 26.2K (yes you heard that correctly)

Reader: POC friendly, she/her, 24 y/o.

A/N: i wrote 6 whole drafts of this god-forsaken chapter all of which included more backstory and angst. trust me, this was going to be over 50k but i didn't think tumblr could handle allat.

previous chapter |

[KAMPOT, CAMBODIA  24 YEARS AGO]

The humid air from outside still somehow seeped into the old hut of the village shaman. Dark, moody clouds could still be seen over the night sky. A small abode tucked away from the main roads, separated on all sides by thick foliage and dense forest. 

Therula hated using Eldritch Magic more than anything, but cannot deny the ease of the sling-ring. Cracks of azure light cut through the air in front of the hut. Warmth from the (L/N) estate and its lavish tapestry halted, turning to centuries-old wood and tropical breeze. The door to the hut, covered in red talisman and chicken feet, was left ajar. Yellow candle light came through the crack of the door frame, enticing the young woman inside.  

Bright yellow walls and intricate drawings cover the old shaman’s home. Ink sketches of human bones against mandalas; the hollow sockets where eyes were supposed to be staring back. On the ceiling there was an intricate projection of the night sky. Nebula, stars, and planets floating against the inky black of space, much like the one Therula conjured in her own home. 

It smelled of incense and peppers. A horrid combination that made Therula (L/N) physically ill. Even without the pregnancy hormones, she would still gag at the sharp smell of the home. Silks adorning Therula clung to her clammy skin. Its ornate pattern, coupled with hand-woven lace seemed odd in the humble environment. 

Anxiety crept in her bones slowly. As if to draw out her unease for as long as possible. A dull cramp settled in her gut, making her seeming calmness falter. Therula placed a laced hand above her stomach, exhaling softly to get her mind under control. 

This is for her own good.

A new mantra she often found herself saying. It keeps her focused, reminding herself that sacrifices are worth it. 

Months of sleepless nights are finally catching up to her. No matter how much concealer or color corrector she puts on, there’s still the gaunt look under her eyes. Her skin is losing its usual luster, and her fidgeting increased tenfold. Very improper indeed, but she gave up trying long ago. 

With anxiety came the sudden rise in heat. Therula felt her chest, neck, and face starting to flush. Inch by inch, crawling up her skin until sweat collects at the base of her head. She couldn’t help but mutter a soft prayer, hoping a call to her patron will give her strength, “Planet of oceans and ice, I ask to strengthen my veins with your power.”

She spoke in an ancient tongue, one that no book held record of. A language passed down from mother to child, only spoken within family. 

On cue, the familiar chill of her magic materialized. It took root in her heart and quickly overtook her body. It wasn’t enough to send her teeth chattering, but enough to calm her. Above all, it was a testament of Therula’s bond to her planet. A sign that they were there for her, aiding her through this difficult time. 

Whilst Therula was acclimating, she failed to notice the shaman materialize behind her. She didn't feel the air shift or the feeling of magic crackle through the air. A sign of the old shaman’s abilities than the lack of awareness on Therula.

“Back so soon? And without your husband, no less,” a snide voice said from behind Therula.

Therula whipped around, placing a hand over her startled heart. She silently cursed herself for letting her guard down. 

The shaman is a raggard woman with a hunched posture and a perpetually hoarse voice. Her tan skin was wrinkled heavily, but still had some residual roundness of her youth. The whole of her chest is covered with amulets and thick, circular clusters of peppers which Therula believes contributes to her posture. Bright primary fabrics construct the robe she adorns. 

A stubborn woman and old enough to have seen Pluto’s full orbit thrice. Her bony hands are covered in dainty tattoos and the tips of her fingers are dyed bright red. The old shaman regards Therula with a piercing gaze and her wrinkled lips into an even thinner line.

Therula had only met the old woman once before. Months ago, when she was barely showing her pregnancy. Therula had come with her husband then, seeking arcane advice for something barbaric. Enestor wasn’t keen on seeing a traditionalist, especially if it concerns his wife and unborn daughter, but he knew how much it meant for Therula. 

At that time, the shaman pushed back at Therula’s request. Too risky, especially when the subject has yet to breathe air. 

Now, as her due date grew nearer, Therula acquired new information regarding her family history—around the curse plaguing her unborn daughter. 

Therula rolls her shoulders back, holding her head high, “He doesn’t understand the situation we are in.”

The shaman shuffles closer, the amulets clanging softly against one another. Peppers along her neck are still sharp with capsaicin, making Therula’s nose scrunch. The shaman’s gaze zeroes in on her large stomach. Beneath the extravagant dress and expensive lace, the shaman could feel the pulsing heartbeat of an unborn child. 

A grunt came from the shaman, “You make decision without husband? Something that will not be reversed?”

The same warning, the same displeased look. 

Something in Therula hardens under the gaze, hardening her voice as much as she could, “He’s not part of my practice. This is a matter that concerns me, no one else.” Her tone is final despite the obvious waver. Her hands stuck along the sides of her swollen stomach, both soothing the baby and her own nerves. 

The shaman’s smile is smug, almost proud. She wags a red dyed finger at Therula, “You are bold, I’ll give you that. Many people come to my hut asking for power. None have asked to take it away.”

A warning. Something irreversible that cannot and would not be undone. 

“Will you do it?” Therula asked, her nerves starting to get the better of her. The calm, collected façade chipping away. 

The shaman huffs, “You ask for impossible, I give you impossible. Although I advised against this, it is clear you are stubborn.”

The old crone beckons Therula to the other side of the room. Wood beneath their feet creak and groan under their weight. The small room only takes a few strides to cross. On the other side, a dark wooden door with a large magical seal painted in red. The brushstrokes are precise and delicate, but it looked more haunting than beautiful. As Therula approached closer, she could make out the grooves of a fingerprint along the paint strokes. The sound of keys clanging made Therula watch the old woman shuffle through her belt. 

Keys, small knives, and talisman were bunched up on a single loop of her belt. The shadows swallowed any definition, making it seem like one big mass. It was hard to tell which key started and the talisman ended. 

A few seconds of shuffling until Therula heard the click of the keyring. An old brass key was finally found. Carved by a dark metal with small flourishes. 

It seemed heavy by the looks of it. The shaman’s shaky hands lodged the key into the lock, twisting it with some strain. The door creaked open as the gears of the lock shifted. Therula could see clusters of lit candles of different colors in every corner of the room. Despite the numerous candles, it was much dimmer than the room previously. Ends of the walls were a dark, inky black with no discernible corners.  

Light from the candles gave a blue hue to the contours of their faces. The smell of incense wafted away to a damp, moldy smell. 

Shelves filled with exotic herbs and more peppers sat along the wall. Glowing bottles next to wet specimens. Even a few shrunken heads dangled in the dark corners. All of which were nothing surprising to Therula. An old crone of her caliber is expected to adhere to traditions, no matter how unsavory. 

In the middle of the room was a giant magic seal. Old Khmer script along its edges along with complicated geometric patterns in the same red paint as on the door. Therula found herself transfixed by the seal. It was a dying art in the magical world. With newer mages seeking Eldritch Magic, there was no need for manually hand-drawing seals. Here, in the small hut in Kampot, a piece of this tradition is marked in stone. 

In the dim lighting of the room, the red seemed dark and muddy. Almost like…

Something uneasy was felt in her gut. Therula took a deep breath, caressing her abdomen. The door creaked shut with the sound of a metal lock clicking, making the poor mother jump. The shaman snickers, no doubt trying to make Therula on edge. 

“I fail to understand why you come here. Plenty of other strong, young mages to do your bidding,” the shaman grunts, pouring glowing liquids and peppers into a wooden bowl. Her bony fingers found a stone pestle to grind the ingredients together, “Not that I mind. Rare to see such esteemed witch from powerful family come to old shaman. Many good elders from your clan to take care of your problem. Those who know this curse better than I.”

Therula shifts her weight, feeling a dull ache in her knees, “You’re the only celestial witch old enough to pull this off. Even the most promising witches and warlocks from my clan only have a planet to call upon. Rumor has it that you have a star. A large one at that.”

A planet for guidance is a feat in itself. Talented mages had taken decades of their lives trying to build a connection. Complete devotion wields pure energy to siphon off of. Planets, with their rich mythology and monstrous size, give unparalleled power to their mage. 

But a planet would only take you so far. 

The shaman smiles at the praise, “You need power to match the curse, yes? One that is old and of equal value.” She brings the wooden bowl to Therula, who hesitantly accepts. 

Fluorescent blue liquid sloshes inside the bowl. The sharp sting of peppers hits Therula, forcing her to aggressively blink away tears. The shaman once again took another look at the mother’s stomach. There was no doubt that the unborn child had the gift. A strong current of magic swirling in around the womb despite the soul not taking hold yet. 

A strong vessel, perfect for a powerful witch. 

“I wonder what your ancestors did to warrant such a nasty curse,” the shaman mutters, still loud enough for Therula to hear, “No doubt the caster pulled divine intervention. Your family is protected by the nine planets, yes? But that’s not good enough. Not pure enough.”

Curses, especially ones involving the soul, are notoriously difficult to break. The older the curse, the more it festers and grows. With time comes the destruction of knowledge, including customs and language. Sooner or later there would be no one alive, nor any record preserved, to break the curse. 

The old shaman was born centuries before, older than some of the elders in Therula’s clan. Her magic was cultivated during a time where magic was still abundant in the public mind. A celestial witch with a star as her patron. Pure energy, older than the curse festering in Therula’s child. Energy that is easy to bend and manipulate, especially when it comes to magical seals. 

Therula huffed, a bead of sweat dripping down her temple, “It has to be done. Trust me, I weighed any other possibilities.”

There wasn’t any other choice. Not one that could save both mother and child. 

“Each year fewer of us are being born. Not to mention the sickness that's spreading,” the crone says, still eyeing her stomach, “I’m sure you’re aware of the potential of your daughter—.”

“Potential means nothing when her life is at stake,” Therula snaps, her eyes burning despite placing the bowl away from her face, “Powers or not, she’s my baby. If there’s a chance to give her a better life, then I’m willing to take it.”

Months of stress pouring through each word; no mistaking the raw edge of desperation.  

The shaman’s lips pressed to a thin line, but said nothing. It was clear that Therula was going through with her plan one way or another, even if it meant going to a lesser mage to get the job done. At the very least the old woman could provide a safe, stable spell that won’t harm either the mother or the fetus. 

The shaman reaches within the deep sleeves in her robe, pulling out a small decorative dagger. It was gold, matching the amulets on her chest, and encrusted with blood-red rubies and rich emerald. The blade gleams despite the low lighting, curving down to a sharp point.  

“I need to ensure the seal will last. Blood from me—” the shaman wastes no time slicing her palm. The thin skin broke through, and her darkened blood dripped into the bowl in Therula’s hand. The shaman took the bowl and flipped the handle of the knife to Therula, “ —blood from you. Power from two witches, and their patrons, are better than one.”

Therula’s heart hammered in her chest, but her hand grasped the ornate handle with no hesitation. A slight burn emanated from her hand where the deep cut was made. She clenched her hand, watching the blood pool out of her fingers and into the glowing bowl. Fluorescent liquid bubbled upon contact. 

“You drink this the moment you go into labor.” The shaman decants the liquid into a clear jar. “The soul of your daughter will start to enter her body. This elixir will enter her bloodstream and create a barrier around her spirit. Once child is born, she will be cut off from magic. The older she grows, the stronger the seal. Her soul will attach itself to barrier and create unbreakable bond.”

Therula takes the glowing jar. It’s easily a cup of liquid and no doubt will taste like copper and spice. Her hands tightened their hold. Early victory could easily sour as there were still five weeks left in her pregnancy. Nothing is for certain until the time of her labor. Even then, Therula would still worry and fret over her child. 

“How strong? Nothing is unbreakable, you of all people should know that,” Therula bites.

The small kernel of hope did nothing to mask the skepticism. After many months of mental torture, it seemed too good to be true. 

The shaman smirks, all knowing with her centuries of power, “Not even a star could undo it.”

— — —

[PRESENT]

Sound is a distraction. It dulls your brain and nullifies your other senses. Silence, in the absence of numbing noises, makes the air coil around you. Your body becomes aware of forces beyond your control. 

It wasn't crippling, but always there. 

Vibrations of energy flowing inside your skull, through your bones. It fills space between your atoms, making your body denser. It’s been the background of your existence for so long, that a part of you feels empty. It feels…

Lighter. You feel lighter. 

The Doctor left the room to retrieve his companions: Amy and Rory Pond. Husband and wife who he swept away from their ordinary lives back on Earth. Rather, they became husband and wife during his time with them. Not too long ago, but he seemed unsure. His eyes are always going about from one side to the next. The Doctor then remembered why he went off on a tangent, saying it would only take a few minutes. 

“Get comfortable. Don’t exert yourself.”

It’s been a few minutes. You shuffled back to the meager cot against the far corner of the room. Each step sends an ache in every fiber and joint in your body. 

It’s unnerving. The quiet of the air. No overbearing weight on your chest. There’s space between your thoughts and air into your lungs. 

It’s a new feeling, too new to be comfortable with. 

Sitting on the edge of your bed you let the seconds tick by, hoping to gather your bearings, think things over before the Doctor and his companions arrive. 

Your hands drag against the edge of your wrappings. Numb, damaged fingers find the frayed threads to slowly unravel. Scratching would hurt, so you quell the urge to scrape your nails on your palms. Keeping your fingers occupied so that you can fuel your nervous tick. A habit you couldn’t shake off and one that your mother always disapproved of.

Scattered thoughts pass through your mind. 

Flashes of color. The familiar burn of your magic. The rush of adrenaline—

Your throat closes. You need to keep calm. Focus on the now, figure a way out…

Silence bites your mind. It makes your feelings more apparent and it frightens you. 

You don't know the next step. You always know—should always know. 

A Master of the Mystic Arts, always a step ahead of everyone else. Commander of spells with experience that came with being an apprentice for six years. You had a big role to fill the moment the Ancient One anointed you as her apprentice and you met her expectations step by step. 

You were powerful. Surrounded by heroes and supportive friends alike. 

You were on top of the world. Power imbued in the fibers of your body. All the knowledge the universe had to offer at the tips of your fingers.

So why did you wish to leave? 

Being stuck in space wasn’t the issue. Being stuck in a universe with no discernable way out isn’t what’s plaguing you. 

Why did you leave? Why did your only thought—your dying wish—was to leave the world behind?

You were supposed to be a brave soldier, fighting for the universe itself. You never caved, never wavered in the battlefield. When the blood spills from your teeth or bones break beneath your skin, you always get back up. 

You swore an oath, bound by blood, to serve humanity and in return was bestowed the highest honor a sorcerer can have. 

And yet…you’d wish to give everything up. To leave your family, Peter, the Avengers—even Stephen and Wong. In your dying moments you acted on selfishness. 

The guilt causing tension in your body wasn’t from failing to keep Wanda and Vision safe…

It was because you chose your own life above all others. Above your friends; above the billions of others who no doubt deserved it more than you. 

The only surefire way to get back is if someone opens a portal and brings you to them. There’s too many variables, too many worlds to slip into. Traversing through the multiverse is like gliding through hot syrup and pure madness. No one in their right mind would suffer the cost just for a ghost. 

There’s no guarantee that even if you manage to survive another trek without magical protection that you could sift through and find your universe. The equivalent of finding a needle in a larger, near infinite pile of identical needles. 

You’re stuck. 

Thump, thump, thump. 

Voices and footsteps echo outside. Growing louder, getting closer.

Your body stiffens, your ears trying to pick up their conversation. Closer and closer they come. You shake away any stray thoughts, focusing on the present.  

Their voices sound clearer. Accents, different from the Doctor’s. Male and female, young, agitated. Arguing about something. They're too far away for you to make heads or tails of their conversation. Their voices come fast, fluctuating between stuttering exasperation (the Doctor most likely) to scathing retorts (Amy, judging from the higher pitch) and a deep groan that oozes annoyance (Rory, process of elimination). 

Voices and footsteps grow louder as the seconds tick by. Jumbled noises smooth into intelligible words. Not enough to piece together their conversation, but enough to know that they were a few paces away. 

Whisper-shouting and rustling of clothing stops the moment they reach your door. 

The ornate brass door knob rattles against the steel door. Side to side, as if it’s stuck. The door creaks open, the voices hushed the moment you see three figures standing outside.

Red hair, plaid shirt with worn jeans, and curious eyes peek through the door frame first. A beautiful woman, with a round face and even rounder eyes. She steps into the space with an air of caution, but there’s no mistaking the piqued curiosity. 

A tall man with sleepy eyes and spiky blond hair follows behind her. He wears a comfy, soft sweatshirt and a pair of dark, crisp denim. He doesn’t appear fearful, but doesn’t look too happy to be here. You notice the squared shoulders and measured steps, reminiscent of those in the military. 

The Doctor comes in last with a mind swarming with unfinished thoughts. His hands sweep around his jacket, trying to fix his appearance before stepping beside the blond man. The tension from your conversation seemed to dissipate, leaving a rather aloof expression on his face.  

The woman—Amy, you assume—stares at you, unblinking as if to not miss any movement. Her husband with cool regard, but has a protective arm around her shoulder. Their eyes take in every bruise and discolored skin, waiting for the Doctor to speak up. 

You can’t help but observe them too. They stood far enough that you could take in the tops of their head and all the way down to the worn converses they both had. Human, but something tells you they’re a bit more than that. 

Everything about her and her husband seemed so…ordinary. Civilians with catalog clothes and that tentative look on their face. If you didn’t know any better, you’d assume they would be another faceless civilian out on the streets of whatever city you’re stopping in. The three of them stand in opposition to you. Each with their own perception of you, ranging between caged animal to war-stricken soldier. Pity, confused, and sad. It’s almost suffocating. Beneath the hesitance was an undeniable feeling of sorrow. As if seeing you was a tragedy. 

You don’t like it. Despise it, even. It seems that in every corner, in every face you see, there was an underlying sadness for you. It seems the lingering stares follow you outside of the multiverse and into the green eyes of Amy and the steel blue of Rory. 

The Doctor doesn’t seem to notice his companions’ less-than-enthusiastic mood. He stands beside you, bending slightly to get to your eye level. “These two lovely chaps are my companions: Amy and Rory Pond! Ponds, meet the wonderful—and very much alive—(Y/N)!” He does some jazz hands towards you with a proud smile on his face. 

They each wave to you awkwardly. 

You lick the sharp skin on your lower lip, the tiniest of smiles on your face. “I’m assuming you’re the Nurses?”

Rory and Amy seemed a bit stunned at your poor attempt at a joke. You guessed the contrast of a beaten face and a strained smile was a bit jarring. 

Then, Rory chuckles. Airy and genuine. It seemed the tension between them lifted. Amy’s shoulders relaxed, letting a smile of her own to be seen. 

“That’s a good one, I see what you did there,” Rory says. “Though, for the record, I’m the only certified medical nurse here.”

Your brows pinch, turning towards the Doctor with suspicion. He doesn’t seem to notice your wary looks, simply beaming at you with that smile of his. 

You shift in your spot, “Uh, I should’ve asked this when I woke up. How long, exactly, was I out for? When I blacked out, I didn’t register time passing. At all. Lemme guess, a few months?”

You’re not stupid. Back in the jungle, lying in that ditch, you felt your soul bursting inside your body. If it wasn’t for your unwavering spite, that stubbornness to get up, to keep trying, you would’ve seen the familiar skeletal face of Death herself. 

So far gone, that enough time passed that you are able to walk. You clearly remember struggling to do so; the biting pain still lingers in your knees. 

Something flashes in the Doctor’s eyes. A shift in his cheery demeanor to something serious and foreboding. 

Caution, you thought. 

“Five days.”

You blink. Once. Twice. 

Maybe you shattered your eardrum on the way here. 

“Sorry, I thought you said five days,” you scoff, almost laughing at the ridiculous thought. Sure you may heal cuts and bruises relatively fast, but you were on the brink of death. Bones were broken, no doubt a ton of internal bleeding sprinkled throughout your body.  

A taste of lemon on your tongue, a warm energy above the nerves of your spine.

Truth, your body says. 

You look at the Ponds and see the same look of weariness. Amy gives a slight nod of her head, confirming what the Doctor said. 

Denial grips your mind. Doubt in their words despite the lack of obvious deception. It makes the settling realization hit a lot harder. 

“It doesn’t make any sense. I should be out for weeks—months even,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. “Damage like that, I wouldn’t even bat an eye if it was a year.”

Acceptance creeps up, denial withers and in its place the cold grip of anxiety. You feel the leftover stinging and the scattered numbness from your injuries. You’re still healing and nowhere near full health, but you could walk and think somewhat clearly. 

A distinct memory floats in your mind; the time when you sustained a nasty fall from an eight story building. While some magic had cushioned your descent, you still heard the crack of bone when you landed on your side. Your humerus had deep fissures which took three weeks to fully heal, even with the help of healing magic. Not to mention the physical therapy alongside it.  

No, there’s no way I could’ve healed like that on my own.

You lift your head up towards the Doctor. “Did you give me some sort of medicine? Some technology that could advance human healing?”

“Well, not exactly,” the Doctor says, trailing off at the end. “Most of the machinery here requires blood work and stem cell extraction. However, because your body was retaining so much heat, we quickly realized that it could damage our equipment. Our biggest concern was the amount of blood being kept in your body cavity—a big sign of internal bleeding. And boy did you have a lot!” The Doctor chuckled, but upon seeing the disapproving look of his companions, he immediately smoothed his expression.

Rory rolled his eyes, continuing where the Doctor left off: “When the Doctor initially scanned your body in the jungle, he identified the sources of your internal bleeding. Mostly in your spleen and around your abdomen from blunt force trauma. We thought we would need to take you in for surgery but—” 

“Your body cauterized the wounds,” the Doctor cut in, too eager to let Rory finish. “Initially we thought it was due to the burning you sustained, but upon closer inspection, I realized that the burning was localized to the wounds you had. Tried my luck and decided to nick one of your veins and observed what happened. Sure enough, you sealed it moments after.”

You almost couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Almost. At this point you were willing to believe that you were a long lost moon princess that can transform with a magical compact. Somehow that seemed more believable in your mind than crossing the entire multiverse. 

At your stunned silence, Rory clarified further: “What he means is that your body—somehow—burned off the areas where you were bleeding without damaging surrounding tissue. But that wasn’t the weirdest part.”

“That wasn’t weird?” you ask, wondering how much new information you could take before your mind breaks. “So I now have burnt tissue stuck in my body on top of CMBR? Are my organs constantly boiling?”

The Doctor taps the bridge of your nose, making you jump. “Good, you’re paying attention. Luckily your cognitive functions seem to be working fine. To answer your first question, no. Whatever burnt tissue remained was overtaken by healthy tissues. Your cells were rapidly dividing to fix whatever damage was left behind. Even your bone marrow was working overtime to bring back the blood you lost.”

“What about the second question?” you ask. “You said that I still housed the CMBR—Big Bang CMBR—in the tissues of my body. Correct me if I’m wrong, but shouldn't my insides be cremated by now?”

In a flash, the Doctor’s finger points dangerously close to the middle of your brows. “I’m a bit insulted that you think I forgot.” He retracts his hand and paces in front of you. “To answer your other question, yes and no. The heat is mostly concentrated towards your heart and your blood. After a few days your body returned to normal temperatures and the CMBR was safely stored. For the most part.” 

You can’t help but inwardly wince. Phantom licks of fire tingle around your hands, threatening to swallow you whole once more. 

Amy moves closer, peering at you. Less analyzing, more like gazing over your features. When your eyes met, you were surprised she didn’t falter. She moved one step closer, her hands tense at her side. A bit of fear clung to her skin.  

“You told the Doctor something, before we came in,” Amy prompts. Any caution melted, spurring her curiosity. “You came from another universe, yes?”

“Don’t entertain her,” the Doctor says, though there isn’t malice. He seemed more exasperated that his companions were considering your story despite his opposition. 

Amy ignored the Doctor, focusing her attention on you, eager to what you had to say.

It was hard to pinpoint where you could even start. Bruce crash landing on the foyer of the New York Sanctum or the Battle of New York years prior? 

Events in your mind cloud and blur together. Too fresh of a wound to recount, even though five days have passed. Your body is still tense. The adrenaline has long since faded, but you can’t seem to unwind the taught muscles in your body. It doesn’t help that you’re in a room with strangers and a humming environment that seems alive.

“I was in battle, protecting Earth,” you start, the words scratching your throat. You can clearly remember the panic and animosity on the battlefield. The air was sparked with rage and stank of blood. “An alien named Thanos wanted to kill half of all sentient beings from the universe in order to preserve resources. He managed to collect five out of the six Infinity Stones. Each stone represented a core trait of existence. Infinite power, that when collected together, could bend the entire universe to your every whim. They were remnants of the Big Bang, hence the CMBR in my body.”

Your voice wavers slightly. Tired, scabbed, numb fingers clench the cotton sheets beneath you. 

Guilt swirls, clawing the inside of your chest. Enough to force your words out with anger lacing each syllable. “My friend had the last stone. He was already injured and Thanos’s army had worn through our defenses. I swore that I would protect him. I took an oath to protect humanity, even if it costs me my life. I tried to stop him—I did what I could and it didn’t matter—”

You cut yourself short. Your eyes were trained on the linoleum floor but all you could see was blood. The sound of flesh being torn apart by alien teeth and the screams of Wanda pounding in your head. 

“The stones—my arms—I tried to stop him. I absorbed as much as I could and I wasn’t strong enough. But I didn’t care about the burns, all I wanted at that moment was to save my friend…And it wasn’t enough.”

It didn’t matter that you managed to hold off Thanos long enough for Wanda to break the Mind Stone. Your promise was null and void and perhaps deep down you both knew it. It was better to hope than go into battle with defeat instilled in your mind. 

Forcing your head upwards, you locked eyes with the Doctor.

Something passed through the Doctor’s face; his lips pressed to a thin line and his eyes holding what words would fail to say. 

Understanding. 

The atmosphere of the room was thick with tension. Though your rushed and jumbled recount of events left more questions than answers, the three strangers didn’t pry further. Amy seemed to be the one most visibly upset. 

Feather light steps and a pinched expression on her face, Amy sat down on your bed beside you. Her weight makes the old foam creak, the close proximity makes the emotion pouring out more apparent. Pity and empathy came off of her in waves. If it was anyone else, under any other circumstance, you would recoil at the feeling.

“You’re safe now,” Amy whispered, her hands on your shoulder accompanying the gentle words. “You don’t have to explain yourself. Not unless you’re ready.”

Citrus on your tongue and the waves of sorrow easing the tension in your body. 

You don’t let the tears flow. You scrape together any ounce of energy to let yourself fall apart. Not now. You’re not ready for that. 

Breathe.

A muffled groan leaves you, your shoulders sagging with the weight of…honestly, you don’t know what to call it. Overwhelmed is a vast understatement to what you’re feeling. A throbbing headache threatens to pound against your skull, your body still desperately trying to pull itself together. You were teetering dangerously close to the edge of your sanity; one wrong thought and you’ll plunge into a familiar abyss. 

The three strangers dare not to move, scared that they’ve pushed you too far. The Doctor’s bright, observant eyes watch every movement of your face, trying to gauge your reaction. 

A shuddering breath escapes you, and you force yourself to fill the empty silence. 

“I-I think I need some time…alone.” Your voice is cracked, barely audible to Amy. You lower your gaze to your clenched fists, barely keeping yourself from trembling. You feel too vulnerable, exposed like a raw nerve. You mumble a strained: “Please.”

Amy doesn’t move right away, lingering in her spot beside you. After a few moments, she gives a feather-light squeeze of your shoulder before standing up. 

The Doctor, despite his distance, seemed to hear you just fine. Shoving his hands into his pant pockets, he sends a tentative smile your way. “Of course, we’ll be out of your hair for the time being.”

He walks to the other side of the room, opening a cabinet to reveal a small fridge. He bends slightly, rummaging through the fridge before grabbing a glass pitcher filled with cold water and a mug from an adjacent cabinet. 

Long legs carried the Doctor back towards you, setting down the pitcher and water on a nightstand beside your pillows. Opening the drawer from the nightstand, you hear the sound of rattling before the Doctor retrieves an orange bottle with large, white pills. 

“Some medicine to help you sleep,” the Doctor explains. “Don’t worry, we ran tests for any allergens.”

You make no move from your spot, only giving the man a stiff nod. 

The Ponds observe silently, fearing that any sound could set you off. They wait until the Doctor ushers them to the door to finally move. Amy twists her head, trying to keep you within her sight even as the door was being shut on her. You catch the quiet panic in her voice as she talks to Rory, but they’re retreating away from your room before you could catch what they’re saying. 

The Doctor is the last to cross the threshold, lingering once more. The corner of his mouth twitches to a slight frown, before straightening to a thin line. “Give a shout if you need anything. Don’t try to leave the room, it can get a bit confusing navigating the hallways. I’ll come back in a few hours to change your dressings.”

He didn’t wait to hear your reply, softly shutting the door with a faint click. 

— — —

The second the door closed, Amy wasted no time dragging the Doctor down the corridor and into the console room. The Doctor protests against her harsh tugging, something about expensive wool, but she couldn’t care less. Her grip on his sleeve was like steel, unyielding even when the Doctor tried wiggling out of her grasp. 

When the familiar flight of stairs came to view, Amy shoved the Doctor forwards, causing him to nearly fall down them. His feet miraculously stumbled to place, albeit with little grace to his movements,  saving him from a nasty fall and possible regeneration. The Doctor stumbled the remaining steps before turning back towards Amy. 

“What was that for?” he demands.

Amy descends down the stairs rapidly, stomping towards the man. “You knew she was gonna be awake.” She pointed a finger square in the Doctor’s chest, her accusing tone pinning him in place. “You didn’t want us in the room with her. All week you’ve been dodging questions—hiding something. Why?”

The Doctor scoffs, which only fueled Amy’s anger. “I told you not to worry about it. Besides I was testing, you know how dangerous CMBR is? Dangerous, lethal. Does that not scare you?”

“You said the radiation levels were not a problem! You tell us what’s going on right now because whether you like it or not we are in this mess together. We found that girl together and that means that Rory and I are just as responsible as you are,” she reminded. 

The Doctor leans back, putting distance between Amy’s face and his. He looked to Rory for support but all the blond could offer was an exasperated look. 

The two of them had an inkling that the Doctor was avoiding them only in regards to the comatose patient in the med-bay. Stuttered, whip-fast excuses, and long winded explanations for his continued disappearance. They knew the Doctor tried to work around their sleep schedule, so Amy proposed sleeping shifts to catch him. It never worked and couldn’t confirm their suspicions, but they couldn’t ignore their gut feeling. He deflected questions from Amy and outright refused help from Rory. 

Amy leaned closer to the Doctor so he could see every inch of her displeased face. Rory, who usually let his wife do the scaring, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Amy. Effectively creating a human wall against their Doctor. 

The Doctor raised his hands in surrender. “It was only a hunch—but I immediately went back to you two afterwards.”

Rory rolled his eyes. “Telling us after isn’t the same as letting us know beforehand. What happened to being a part of a team? Why did you feel the need to sneak around? We’re here to help.”

The Doctor heard the faint sound of disappointment from his companion, sending guilt straight to his two hearts. He sighs, running his hand through his hair for the umpteenth time. He hoped to have gotten away with it for longer. Alas, nothing could get past Amy or Rory. A part of him—a large one—was glad they were observant to see through his attempt at secrets.

“You’re right, I was sneaking around,” the Doctor admits sheepishly, though a part of him was unwilling to say it. “I wanted to be sure. This situation is unlike anything I’ve ever dealt with.” 

Amy scoffs, but lets a smile peek through. “Just hack it up already.”

The Doctor’s mood lightens a bit, letting him shift in excitement. “As you know, I’ve been trying to comb through her things, rather, what's left of them. Right when she was stable, I checked the driver’s license number on her ID. Y’know, run it through the New York DMV database to find any matches—”

Amy cuts the Doctor off, “But you didn’t find anything. She didn’t exist with no living relatives. You checked her DNA and knew she was human. You traced her back to around our time. We already know this, just tell us what you found out.”

“There, that’s the problem,” the Doctor states rather unhelpfully. Amy groaned. 

The Doctor pivots around, already ignoring Amy. “Girl crash lands in a jungle and has energy from the Big Bang. Wears clothes of a monk but clearly has defensive wounds meaning she was in battle. Odd, monks in battle. An oxymoron if I ever heard one.” He turns back to his companions but continues to ramble to himself. “Why would a New Yorker wear monk garb? A young one at that? Temples, monks. You don’t find enlightenment on the Statue of Liberty.”

Rory nudged Amy’s side, mouthing something to her: money. 

Amy’s eyes widened in realization, digging into her pocket. 

“Forget crashing, why voluntarily fight if you value all life?” the Doctor mumbled into his hand. 

“Doctor, I think I found some—” 

The Doctor cuts Amy off, not even looking in her general direction. “Stones? Who uses stones? Oh, who am I kidding, stones are cool, stones are sturdy and reliable. If I was the Big Bang I would be a stone too.”

“Doctor would you please—”

“Not now Amy, I’m in the middle of something.” The Doctor tries to maneuver around the console, but Amy grabs him by the shoulders, forcing him to acknowledge her. 

God, sometimes she wants to smack him, possibly knock his brain in the process. 

Amy shook the Doctor, glaring at him with enough heat to make anyone wither. “If you would just listen for once, I could tell you where she became a monk. Goodness, it’s like you get paid to ignore people.”

The Doctor looks to Amy’s hand. In it was a crumpled 20 rupee banknote. 

“National currency of the Federal Democratic Republic of Nepal. Odd currency for someone living in New York, isn’t it?” Amy smirked at seeing the Doctor’s eyes widened. 

The Doctor snatches the rupee, giving it a sniff and inspecting it under the TARDIS lights. It was real all right. He spun back towards his companions, “How come I didn’t see this earlier? Were you hiding this from me?��

“A taste of your own medicine,” Amy quips. “It was in her robes, not her wallet. Found it a few minutes ago when I was inspecting it.”

It was a stroke of luck that Amy managed to see the red bank note in the sea of red fabric. Whoever constructed the robes had a knack for secret pockets and seamless edges. At first glance, the pockets themselves were placed in rather odd places. It seemed as though they were slapped on haphazardly; one of them was adjacent to the armpit, another placed smack in the middle of the back. Most of them were empty, save for an odd post-it note or some receipts from Delmar's Deli-Grocery. The Doctor had already found no matches for the receipts or any deli in New York with a name like that. 

Pride bloomed in the Doctor’s chest. He gives Amy a giddy smile and ruffles her hair, “Oh, Amelia. What would I do without you?”

The red banknotes flips in his hand. Another clue for him to dissect.

“So our soldier-monk went to Nepal to be enlightened,” the Doctor observed. “Somewhere along the way she somehow gets recruited into a big war where monks are part of enlistment. Sounds like an awful system to be living under. Things happen, stones get collected, infinity becomes real, she crash-lands on Rwanda.”

“Think you missed a few steps,” Rory mumbled. 

The Doctor flicked the side of his head. “Plot holes in stories are what gives us clues. If her memories have been tampered there would be glaring problems with her story. Problem is, her story is just a big hole with bits of plot in them. A plot stew if you will. No, that’s not right.”

Amy leans against the console. “Maybe she doesn’t trust us to give the whole story. She didn’t seem like she was lying. Everything felt so…genuine. Besides, what else could cause those injuries if not…stones made from the Big Bang?”

“I’ve come from a whole line of medical professionals,” Rory adds. “Never had I seen burns look like that. The skin only split where her veins were. Any other normal injury would follow the pattern of the fire or lightning, not the pattern of your veins.”

The Doctor had to agree on Rory there. Nothing about this made any sense. Normally that would be a surge of excitement. Few things puzzled the Doctor, especially for days on end. What would usually be something of a game very quickly turned to a massive headache. 

You believed everything you said wholeheartedly, but everything that came out of your mouth seemed to contradict the thing before it. 

The Doctor rounds the console, finding the swiveling monitor, with Amy and Rory trailing behind him. His fingers type out something on the keyboard, the monitor beeping to life. 

Charts, data, and a scan of your body was shown. Text flashes, blocks of letters and numbers that could make anyone’s head spin. Amy had seen this screen many, many times, yet couldn’t make out anything in plain English. Rory’s nursing background gave some leverage, easily spotting medical terms and diagnoses that the Doctor gave. 

“Remember how I said that I couldn’t find a relative traced to her?” the Doctor asked, enlarging the scan of your DNA. Large parts of your genes were highlighted in bright orange and another set of text appeared: NO GENETIC MATCHES FOUND. The Doctor continued: “I checked everything. What diseases she’s immune to, her microbiome, and general physiology. All signs point to her being human, but it’s this that gives me trouble. This specific sequence not only doesn’t belong to any human, but doesn’t relate to any living species on Earth. It’s not spliced, it’s the same genome she was given to the day she was born.”

“So she’s an alien,” Rory said, albeit a bit unsure. 

“As much as she is human, yes,” the Doctor answers, typing more things out. “Monk working as a soldier, New Yorker with Nepali money, human with alien DNA. So alien that the sequence doesn’t match any known species—sentient or not—across the Milky Way. I even sent a sample to the Department of Intergalactic Biologics back in Andromeda. Nothing back yet, but I’ve been told that my case is top priority.”

Amy leans her body against the edge of the console. “Last time you asked them for help they took a month to reply back. If I recall correctly, that case was also top priority. Are you going to keep her here until then?”

“That’s the plan, yes,” the Doctor replied. There was an edge of frustration lined in his words. He hoped his normally erratic behavior covered it well enough. “Even if she did omit elements to her story, I doubt it will clear anything up. However, my reason for keeping her onboard is to monitor her CMBR. Specifically, how her body houses it. Or worse, if it can metabolize it.”

Amy’s lips pursed in thought. “Metabolize? As in eat it?”

“As in convert it to energy,” Rory corrects. He glanced at the Doctor for confirmation, to which the man nodded. 

“And that’s supposed to be a bad thing?” Amy asked. “Shouldn’t that be a good thing? That means that the radiation wouldn’t harm her or us.”

The Doctor shakes his head, his body wrung tight with tension. “You and I see her as who she is, as a sentient being with ambitions and goals. At best she could harness the radiation and be at peak physical performance at all times with little food. But not everyone will see her as such.” 

Amy’s eyes narrowed slightly in confusion at the Doctor’s purposefully vague wording. A part of her regretted trying to prod the alien for information. 

Realization of the Doctor’s word dawned on Rory nearly immediately. “She’ll be a battery.”

The Doctor let out a heavy sigh. “A weapon would be the correct term. That's why I couldn’t let her go to the hospital. Even a human one. At such a vulnerable stage, anyone could try to conjure ways to extract the energy inside of her. If not the staff, then surely any desperate enough group who are willing to get their hands on a stable energy source by any means necessary.” 

As much as your odd words and mysterious origin makes the Doctor’s temple ache, it relieved him that he and the Ponds were the first to find you. With countless wars and fights for resources plaguing galaxies across the universe, there’s no doubt in his mind that you would’ve been picked off and made into something less than. All things good and human would be torn away, and you would be left as a husk whose sole purpose was to give and give until you simply couldn’t. 

If what you said was true, that multiverses do exist, then that reality has already come true. The Doctor didn’t make it in time and the universe would have swallowed you into an unknown path where not even the TARDIS could track you down. So many possibilities sprung from his mind that he nearly forgot he was being watched carefully by the Ponds. 

The Doctor didn’t acknowledge the worried looks of his companions. With a deep breath, the man steadied his mind and straightened his back. Back to his old self. 

He clasped his hands and pivoted towards the Ponds. “Right, no point in worrying about the would have or could have. Focus on the now—the present and what we control. As Amy pointed out, our top priority should be our patient’s health and well-being. I’ll save the testing ‘til she’s in full recovery.”

“And how long would that be? A few days?” Rory asked. At the rate you’ve seemed to recover, it would be a matter of time before you were at your full strength.

“I don’t know,” the Doctor admitted. Arguably a worrying statement coming from someone like him. “Internal bleeding and bruising are healing exceptionally fast, but it’s her arms. Whatever force, power—what have you—had done that damage seemed to alter the way her cells repair themselves. It’s hard to tell why, but it’s not going to heal the same way the rest of her body does. That is a certainty.” 

“But she’ll live, right?” Amy asks, a bit fearful of what the answer would be. 

Rory looked expectantly at the Doctor as well. 

Once again, the Doctor is reminded of why he is so fond of humans and their planet. Why he orbits the Earth and adopted it like it’s his own. 

“The chance is never zero,” the Doctor reminds, but his grin betrays his own bias. “I think she’ll be okay.”

— — —

The medicine the Doctor gave you managed to knock you out for three hours. There was no label to tell you what exactly you were putting in your body, but you knew that the Doctor could’ve easily killed you in the five days that you were in his care. After drinking the entire pitcher of crisp water, you took a single pill. In no time, your body sagged against worn pillows and the warm duvet. 

You would’ve probably slept a lot longer had it not been for Amy desperately trying to wake you. 

“You have to get up,” she whispered, gently shaking your shoulder. When you stir slightly, she raises her voice a bit louder. “Rory says you need to eat. You can go back to bed after, promise.”

Sleep still clung to you, trying to pull you back to the soothing, dreamless state you were before. You had half the mind to ignore her, hoping that she will get the message and leave you be. As you shifted your body away from her hands, you felt a familiar ache in your stomach. A loud, rumbling growl that echoed inside your body. 

That certainly woke you up. 

Amy’s laugh further cemented your embarrassment, but you knew she wasn’t trying to make fun of you. She helped you out of your bed as your arms were incapable of hauling the duvet off of you. Still groggy with sleep, you allowed Amy to hover beside you as you stubbornly limp to the door. 

“The Doctor went out for supplies,” Amy says. “Just going to be me and Rory for the time being. We would’ve let you sleep longer, but Rory realized that the Doctor took out your feeding tube, meaning you haven’t had any food for twelve hours.”

“He knew I was going to be awake?” You had to remind yourself that you weren’t back on Earth with your limited technologies. They probably had your whole genome mapped and analyzed by now. 

Amy let out a frustrated sigh. “He had a hunch, but kept Rory and I in the dark. Turns out he wanted to interrogate you alone. He didn’t piss you off, did he?”

You tried to think back on your initial conversation with the Doctor. The confusion, the whip-fast talking, and the odd words he said. U.N.I.T.…Torchwood…

“The Doctor called me something.” You wracked your brain, trying to push past your sleep-deprived memories. “Spor…Sporgatuu? He got pretty upset, accusing me of trying to get him to join a club?”

Amy stopped in her tracks and gave you a questioning look. “He said that to you?” She gave a scoff and under her breath mumbled: “Unbelievable.”

“What? What did he mean by that?”

“The Doctor calls them a fringe, off-the-wall cult,” Amy starts. “One of the oldest in the universe. What we know is that they want the Doctor to join and they always send a woman to speak with him. I’ve only seen one of them, and I can tell you first hand that they got a few screws loose. They believe in magic and that their gods live in other universes. Don’t worry, I’m sure the Doctor knows by now that you’re not one of them.”

You gave a small chuckle. “He sure seemed pretty convinced back there.”

Amy rolled her eyes. “The Doctor is as stupid as he is smart. His heart is in the right place, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t do questionable things. How about we put away the multiverse talk and think about something else for a change. Like…how do you feel about stew?”

— — —

The kitchen wasn’t too far off from the med bay. You managed the distance without wincing or injuring yourself further. Inside, you could smell the cooking vegetables and feel the steam warming up the room. Rory stood at the stove with a plain black apron and some upbeat jazz in the background. You wanted to keep to yourself, opting to sit on the barstool on the kitchen island. Amy respected your silence, not wanting to further distress you and went to join her husband despite his insistence that he could handle cooking. 

She helped Rory with setting the table and poured you a generous serving. Dinner consisted of veggie stew and mashed potatoes. The steam kissed your cheeks and the plate was warm to the touch.

Rory became sheepish when you rightfully complimented his cooking. The steamed carrots melted on your tongue and the seasoning was a delicate blend of savory with a tiniest splash of sweet. The last meal you remember having was microwaved dim sum and expired fried rice. Between covert missions and temple duties, you didn’t think to restock your fridge or have any spare time to grab a decent meal. 

You learned that Rory was automatically elected to babysit you as the only human medical professional. The Doctor simply handed a communication device should he run into trouble. Amy wanted to stick behind, partially because she wanted Rory’s cooking, but also to see how you were doing. She knew how hard transitioning into TARDIS-life (as she called it), and hoped to make it smoother for you. 

After your first plate was cleared, your stomach still felt hollow and ravenous. By the third time Amy refilled your plate, Rory brought the cast iron pot on the stove to the counter in front of you. Breathing became a suggestion and shoving spoonfuls of stew became your sole priority. 

You didn't realize how much you missed home cooked meals. With missions across time and space, your options for food were limited at best. Slobs of unintelligible meat with exotic plants that could poison you were unfortunately very common. 

It was during the holidays or times where your body was on the verge of collapsing were when you could indulge in simple comforts. 

Warm food, cozy bed, time with your parents and siblings.

The thought makes you pause. Hunger that festered in your stomach for the past hour had evaporated, leaving a sour pain. 

Amy, who was observing you like a hawk, immediately picked up the miniscule change in attitude. “Something wrong?”

You cleared your throat. A scratchy, hoarse sound. You shook your head, “Sorry, just lost in thought. It's just…been so long since I had any good food.”

Just how long has it been? Weeks? Months?

It was better to consume anything remotely edible than be picky. You’d learned that the hard way. That didn’t mean that eating mystery meats and slobs was enjoyable. If anything, it made the juxtaposition of seasoned stew and creamy mashed potatoes all the more jarring. 

The two of them said nothing as you slowly ate the rest of your plate. By the time your spoon scraped the bottom of your bowl and your fork scooped the last bits of mashed potato, Rory had decanted the leftovers into plastic tubs. Amy took over dishwashing duty, thoroughly scrubbing the pans and utensils. 

Slowly, you rose from your chair with your empty plate in hand. Movement was difficult and your full stomach made you feel the beginning stages of sleepiness. Still, you made your way over to the couple and placed your plate beside the sink. 

“Thank you. Seriously, you don’t know how much this means to me,” you say softly.  

Amy seemed surprised at your admission. Then, a wide grin blossomed on her face. You returned with a small one of your own, pained as it was. 

— — —

The first time you wandered through the TARDIS by yourself was downright terrifying. When the Ponds supplied you with their information regarding the space-craft, you realized that you were far too tired to actually hold onto the information. Bits and pieces of the conversation stood out; bigger-on-the-inside, spatial warping, dizziness. Amy advised to call one of them to guide you around as it can be overwhelming to experience the TARDIS alone. 

Three days and some hours have passed since you’ve woken up on the strange ship. You’ve always had a speedy recovery—something you’ve come to loathe—and your altered cells have only increased it. Walking around the room can now be handled without any opioids or morphine (courtesy of Rory). Days were spent glued to the bed, broken by the timely visits by the Ponds or the Doctor. Rory made the executive decision to prescribe bed-rest. A week at least. 

Three days and you’re now starting to lose it. With all the sleep medication and sore limbs, you were practically welded to the mattress. 

You’ve walked down the hallways before, but always accompanied by one of the Ponds and never further than a few doors down to the kitchen. So when you woke up much earlier than anticipated, you made the impulsive decision to wander out. 

The door to the med-bay was a light blue tint over the steel; it silently shut itself behind you when you crossed into the hallway. Other doors were other versions of plain steel. You foolishly thought that if you kept track of the doors you’d see, you eventually make your way back to your squeaky cot until it was time for the Doctor to do his daily checkup. You told yourself that you’ll only be gone five—maybe ten minutes tops. 

Blue steel of the med-bay’s door marked the end of the hallway. You hadn’t walked for thirty seconds before you felt a strange shift in the air. As if something had moved and the air blew in response. Turning around, you expected to see the end of the hallway staring back.

An endless, repeating hallway met you instead. On and on it went that you could see a small vanishing point on the horizon. 

Maybe you were freaked out. A cold sweat overcame you and you started to walk back to where you came from. You twist your neck left and right to try and see the familiar door. All of the doors along the hallway were plain silver steel. 

Air billowed around you, like seconds before. This time, it fluttered your cotton shirt and the cuffs of your loose pants. You turned around, nearly jumping out of your skin. 

Blue steel inches away from your face. You turned back around and saw the same endless hallway. Looking at the reflective surface of the med-bay, your fingers hesitantly felt the metal, shocked that it was solid. 

Now you were more than a little freaked out. Maybe you were a little impressed. Was hallucinating part of the side effects of the drugs you were taking? No magic, so space-warping spells are immediately ruled out. You’d encountered many things, but the warping of space without the aid of some type of magic was perplexing. Scary, even. 

And very intriguing. 

It took some mulling and a lot of overthinking. The best hypothesis you could come up with is that the TARDIS is somehow telekinetic. When you panicked and tried looking for the med-bay, it immediately materialized, just out of your sight. 

So you wandered about away from the med-bay, longer than you had previously. You needed to put as much distance between you and the last known location of the med-bay so there could be no doubt. As you gingerly walked, you took the time to catalog the different doors. Most of this hallway was steel, but now that you’re taking time to observe, you realize the slight variations. Some were inscribed in alien language, others had tacky door knobs that didn’t fit with the aesthetic of the door, each one had a small plaque next to them. Some were numbered and others had plain English. Words like “pool”, “storage”, “1890s Costumes”, and other odd labels. 

Turning around, you see the endless hallway. Turning back, the same was met back. Closing your eyes, you plead:

I want to go to med-bay.

Air in front of your face swooshes away, kissing your eyelids. When you opened, the blue steel flooded your vision. 

You were still freaked out, but curiosity eventually won. 

You told yourself a couple minutes at the most to explore; that the Doctor would be waiting to check up on you.

Five minutes easily slipped to ten. Ten to twenty, and eventually you had been gone for an hour. Instead of the med-bay, you tried to summon different doors. Hell, you even opened a few rooms. 

The pool room (yes, a room full of pools) was huge, easily swallowing the med-bay by a few thousand square-feet. Costume related rooms were mostly a plain white room with racks of period clothing. Sometimes there were a pile of mismatched fabrics in the corner, as if someone haphazardly sifted through them. 

Easily, you’ve been in over fifty different rooms. You’d found another kitchen, which looked straight out of a 60s home magazine. Light green walls, pastel appliances, and a large fridge filled with various leftovers. It was bigger than the ones in New York, but smaller in comparison to the vast rooms of the TARDIS. 

You walked down the hexagonal archways, everything blurring together. You didn't mind the repetition as it made each room seem like a mystery. 

A few rooms stood out the most. Ones that had a name and had painted wood instead of steel. They were spread out from one another, taking you twenty to thirty minutes before seeing another one. 

Their knobs were round brass and when you went to touch it, there was a whisper of warmth. As if someone just held it before you. Some variations of these doors were present. 

“Martha” had grooves and was painted beige. 

“Donna” was a light blue with some flourish on the door knob. 

“Rose”, as the name suggests, was a dusted pink with small, colorful flowers. Each of them was locked shut, so tightly in fact, that the door knob didn’t wiggle no matter how much force was put in them. 

Old companions was the likely answer. People, like Amy and Rory, who were swept away from Earth and into deep space and time. You get the feeling that the Doctor locked them for a reason. 

Eventually, you made your way through the endless hallways, completely forgetting about the Doctor’s timely visit. Your hand glides through the oddly shaped hallway and your feet softly padding down clean floors. You didn’t have a destination in mind, just blindly walking in a straight line. It was repetitive, calming in the way meditation was. You didn’t think about potential meetings with masters, or the Infinity Stones residing inside you. 

Guilt was still there, always lingering in your body. Then again, there was always something weighing you down. Still, you kept walking, completely lost in your own bubble. 

Your body has healed remarkably since your waking. Soreness ebbed to stiffness and the nerves damaged had slowly, but surely, been repaired. Your hands haven't had the same luxury as the rest of your body. Still stitching itself together. Deep lines along your veins that had barely been scabbed over. Even if  weeks passed the Doctor believes it will take a year before your skin will finally close. Until then, gauze will cover them, keeping them safe from further damage. 

You hope your body will pull itself together soon. Residue energy from your universe—though terribly unlikely—could help speed things up. 

Air shifts behind you. 

Confused, you turn to see the med-bay materialize, even though you didn’t summon it. Footsteps were heard behind the door and before you knew it, the door swung open. 

The Doctor hung in the doorway, equally as confused. 

“There’s a lot of doors out here. Gets kind of confusing,” you say, as if it was the perfect explanation to your whereabouts. You slipped past the Doctor and into the room. 

The Doctor followed you, still utterly confused. “You could’ve at least told me you wanted to wander. You could get lost in there.”

“But I didn’t. It’s not that hard to figure out how to find your way back,” you say, plopping down on the squeakiest mattress. “Amy failed to mention how the TARDIS can warp space and is telepathic. Is it sentient? Did someone die here?”

A ghost, an emotional one especially, could explain the weird ship without delving into magic. Still spiritual, but not touching sorcerer territory. 

“Kind of, and no. If you knew your way back, why did you take so long to return? I had to get the Ponds out there looking for you.” The Doctor grabs several rolls of gauze and some ointments. 

You paused for a moment. Then, you answered honestly, “It was repetitive. I could walk for a mile and have the med-bay appear the second I command it.” 

I didn’t feel lost. 

For the first time in weeks—months even, you managed to entertain yourself without interruption. You had time to focus, shift your mind into a peaceful state. Even if it was temporary. You take any victory with stride, no matter how small. 

The Doctor unravels your gauze with surprising carefulness. You don’t see him much on account of your sleeping habits and his tenacity to leave the TARDIS for long periods of time. In the rare glimpses you do see, the Doctor is erratic as much as he is smart. Constantly bumping into corners, fumbling instead of walking, always in motion even when seated. 

It’s only when he engages in his namesake is when the Doctor is gentle and slow. Mumblings are few and his focused gaze is hidden behind his brown, wild hair. 

When the entirety of your right arm is revealed, it’s still as raw and tender as yesterday. Most of your skin seemed to remain intact, save for the deep, exposing gashes along your veins. A burn describes skin that's peeled and blistered. A cut would aptly describe the wounds you have. It’s clean, burrowing deep into muscle like butter. It winds and twists around your arms, only stopping around your bicep. From there, the only damage you see is dark, almost purple markings that extend to the middle of your chest and back. 

“It could be worse,” the Doctor notes, sincere and light-hearted.

A small chuckle escapes, but your words are dull. “It definitely feels worse.”

The Doctor reaches for the ointments, weird smelling pastes, and a saline solution. The saline is bottled in a dark, glass bottle written in a script that barely passes as English. After submerging a cotton round, the Doctor dabs the solution along the open wounds. Cold liquid cascades down, kissing the raw edges of your tissue. Up and up the cotton goes until all sides are discolored with flecks of blood and old ointments. 

You don’t mind the silence this process brings. It’s never awkward or boring. The cleanings don’t burn or sting anymore and the Doctor’s focus allows you to observe him. A habit you’ve gotten since you were young, always cataloging features of the people around you. Doctors, policemen, civilians. 

When the Doctor moves to get the next set of items, your eyes briefly meet. He doesn’t seem alarmed at your staring, even when he catches you often. He commented once how you often look at people more when they face away from you. You suppose he’s referring to the times where the Ponds interact with you. For a moment—perhaps for the first time—you really observed his eyes. A clear, muted green that easily slips into blue. The skin and features surrounding his eyes are young and prominent. It’s easy for his eyes to blend into his face and go unnoticed. But at this distance, you see him for who—what he is. 

“You’re old.” 

It’s a second too late and you realize how terribly you’ve worded your scattered thoughts.  

The Doctor looked startled. He immediately turns to the reflective bottles beside him and twists his head around, capturing his features on all sides. Before you could take back your words and verbalize what you actually meant, he scoffs, never taking his eyes away from his reflection. 

“Old? Me? Humans age, it’s natural, it’s supposed to happen.” You can’t tell if he’s talking to you or just rambling to himself. Then, he turns to you with concern, rubbing his throat. “It’s the neck isn’t it? Amy tells me that it’s the first place that starts to change. Or is it the hair? She tells me it doesn't suit me. Or was that Rory?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, trying to cut in before he misunderstands further. “I mean, sort of—I just mean that you’re older than you appear. You still look young, but you’re for sure older than us, the Ponds and I. You’re immortal. At the very least not human.” 

Now that you’ve verbalized it, everything about the Doctor’s behavior and being makes sense. Apart from the odd clothing and overly loud personality, there’s something off about him. It really shows when the Ponds are also in the same room as him. It’s not scary or uncanny. So subtle that most wouldn’t be able to tell. But you’re not most.

It’s the misplaced, dated slang. The sense that he knows too much and isn’t afraid to show it. How he constantly refers to the Ponds as “people” but sometimes slips into “you humans”. It seems he catalogs every sensory input, from the subtle change in the air to the pumping of his heart, because his brain has the capacity to do so. 

The sheer happiness radiating off the Doctor is infectious. His wide grin and twinkling eyes, joyous that you’ve caught on. 

“What gave it away?” he wonders, an echo of childlike curiosity. He tilts his head, leans ever-so-slightly towards you. 

It’s clearer now. The weight of centuries lingering in the depths of his iris. How could you have not noticed sooner? It’s familiar. Being an apprentice of the Ancient One; having spent countless months—maybe years—traveling between worlds where time is merely another dimension for you to alter. You’ve met and befriended a god whose age transcends the thousands and more so deities who have made you their sworn enemy. 

You remember the first time you’ve met Rocket. How despite his appearance as a normal mammal, you could immediately spot his wisdom before he uttered a snarky question. The way the Collector carries himself and how his brother regards you as less than. But time always manifests. Maybe not in the grooves of one's skin or the white strands of hair, but in the eyes. Always. 

“I’ve seen enough to know. You hide it better than most.” 

The Doctor’s smile doesn’t fade. He still has your wrist in his hand, a gentle but firm grasp. When he squeezes it subconsciously, he finally remembers why he’s there with you. 

Something crosses his face. A thought that makes his brow twitch and his focus falter. “And what are you?”

It shouldn’t surprise you that he asks. You survived a shock of radiation that would’ve no doubt vaporized any other being. Your body heals at an accelerated rate to the point where it takes less than a week for you to walk again. 

It shouldn’t surprise you, but you’re caught off-guard nonetheless. 

Your throat tightens, your tongue feeling like paper in your mouth. “I’m a person. With thoughts and feelings.”

The Doctor stares a moment longer. His lips settle into a more neutral state, and he thinks over your response. You wait for a response, but he turns away. He then grabs a tube of blue paste, the one that smells like burnt rice, and resumes his care. 

You watch as his fingers glide over your hand. Starting with the middle of your palm and working his way out. To the lengths of your fingers, then the tops of your hand and up your forearm. The paste is dense and hard to manipulate. The tips of his finger catch on the sharp, dry flakes of skin and it stings. 

His response is delayed, so much that you’ve returned to watching his work on your arm in deep thought. When the Doctor speaks in a calm, observant voice, it glides through the silence. “You used the word ‘person’. Not ‘human’ or some snide comment that humans normally respond to when asked. Your first thought was to make me emphasize, to humanize yourself without saying it.”

The Doctor’s analysis cuts straight through you, pinning you in place. The way he says it is so matter-of-fact, as if reading from a book that is lying in front of him. 

To have the observation made by someone you know little about—

Your answer is rushed, almost shamed. “It’s just that…some people seem to forget. They’re more concerned about what I can do for them, feelings are second.”

You couldn’t blame the masters for doing so. You often took the hardest jobs, throwing away your childhood one mission at a time. Perhaps it was easier to treat you as a powerful soldier, pushing you to your absolute limits, because it’s easier than acknowledging that they’re enabling your suffering.

The Doctor doesn’t comment or try to analyze the words you say. Fresh gauze winds itself securely back onto your wounds. Your left arm was cleaned and wrapped at the fraction of the time it took your right. At the speed he was going, the Doctor still made sure to not harm you further. 

You don’t say anything when he piles the glass bottles into a drawer next to the sink. Nor do you acknowledge him when he goes towards the door. You feel his heavy stare and the questions that hang in the air. 

You don’t move from your spot until long after his footsteps fade away. 

— — —

In your travels you’ve come to know two things. One: you do exist in other universes. Two: none of them are sorcerers. None of them get their magic. They all seem to live ordinary lives, plagued with little threat, and return to their homes safe and sound. Sometimes there’s trouble in the form of being late to appointments or the forgetting of pants. It’s a break from fighting demons in realms without time. Perhaps you offer alternate versions of yourself fantastical dreams. In return you get to live out a life where you chose differently.

You’ve come to treasure these dreams. It was a break from the norm. So when you start to lie down and the TARDIS lights dim, it wasn’t dreams you were experiencing.

Instead of the normal dreams, ones where you live vicariously through the various alternate lives that you have, you have memories. Exact recreations. No autonomy; nothing you can do but simply watch.

— — —

Guilt festers. It grows and grows until you can do nothing but wallow in your anger. Anger is new. What used to be bottomless sadness that leaves you heavy has now been replaced by bubbling rage. 

You’re glad no one on board shares your gift of sensing energy. Behind every neutral look, every small grin, every dry-humored joke were storms of emotion. It hurts, physically pains you that you allow your grief to evolve. 

You deserve it. All of it. 

There was a point in time where the voice in your head sounded like yours. Then your mother’s. 

Wanda now whispers, her voice echoing in your ear like nails on a chalkboard. 

— — —

There’s a pattern to the dreams—memories, rather. 

If one night you experience a pleasant, mundane sliver of your life, the next will be filled with agony. Sometimes you’re lucky, and get a dreamless rest. But those are few and far between.

You’re not in bed, lying on a dingy cot that squeaks with any miniscule movement. Glowing orange walls are replaced with light green paint and white trim. Disinfectant morphs to a sweet, ambery vanilla from the candles your mother collects. 

The air is warm with the bristling of energy, and sunlight caresses every surface in the living room. 

You shouldn’t be here. 

“Are you okay?” 

A childish voice, one that rings through the air, in the silence of your thoughts. 

Snapping your head down, you meet the scrutinous gaze of your younger brother. Younger than you remember when you’d seen him last. He sits on the old Persian carpet your father loves dearly. No one is allowed to play on the good carpets, lest they ruin the intricate design underneath. Elio sits with his trucks and action figures scattered around him.

But your parents are away and you let him play as long as you’re watching. 

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m just tired from traveling. Probably be even more tired when I go back to the Sanctum.” 

“You’re leaving again.”

You feel his pain before his face betrays him. He knows it, hiding his eyes as he stares at the dozens of toys lying around him. Too many for one boy to play with. 

You were gone for three months, trapped in a universe that is comparable to Hell on Earth. Nearly missed your father’s birthday and Master Hamir’s annual potluck; the latter you don’t really care as much. 

No matter how sore your body is or how much work awaits you at your office, you make it a point to see your family after each mission. Always. 

“Not for a few hours at least. Seems like you’re stuck with me.”

For someone who’s age hasn’t passed the double digits, Elio doesn’t let his emotions show. You don’t blame him. Since you’ve gotten promoted, your visits have gotten shorter and shorter. Soon, you’re going to be regarded as just another adult in his life. 

No. You already are. The Elio in front of you is not the one you’d left behind once more. 

The floorboards creak, signaling the arrival of another member of the family. A pink ball of energy, with a fury that rivals your own.

“Elio! I told you not to take my stuff!” 

Lene’s shrill, whiny voice is almost jarring against the silence of the estate. Her puffy cheeks and wrinkled princess gown makes it known that she had just woken up. 

Elio doesn’t bother to look up from his toys. He responds in a calmer manner than his younger sister, “(Y/N) said I could play with your toys as long as you were still asleep.”

At the mention of your name, Lene freezes. Her face was so full of surprise that her eyes bulged out of her head. 

You’re situated on a couch right beside the entrance of the living room, yet Lene’s face morphs into shock at you. As if she’s seeing you for the first time. 

“I thought you left already,” she mumbles, her gaze wide and unmoving. 

You stare back, unsure of how she would react. 

And react she did. Not a second later, her nose scrunches up and tears begin to form. “Does…Does that mean—”

Lene couldn’t finish her sentence before a sob escaped her. Tears that are almost comically big started to bead off her eyes in droplets. Her shrill voice got louder with each cry. Immediately, you scrambled on the floor to embrace the small girl. Her tiny hands wrapped around you and you feel your shirt getting damp. 

“I’m not leaving for a while, okay?” you cooed softly in her ear. Scooping her up in your arms, you start to rock her, holding her tightly. “(Y/N) is gonna leave tomorrow morning, so that means you have the rest of the day with me!”

Your words did nothing but make your sister sob even harder into your chest. You can barely make out her words between each hiccup. “I-I already sl-slept all d-day!”

Glancing up at the window, you can see the sun making its descent. 

Not again.

“I’m gonna visit again soon, you’ll see me again,” you promised, trying to speak over her wails. Still, it feels empty when you say it. “Mommy and Daddy will come home soon and you can ask them to visit me in Nepal. Or what about New York? Don’t you wanna see New York?”

If it wasn’t for the fact that Lene is burying her face in your shirt to muffle her cries, you would for sure lose hearing in one ear. She shakes her head violently, gripping onto you tighter. 

You rock and bounce, still remembering the motions when she was just a small baby. You still see her as such, even now that she’s bigger than most kids her age. 

Her cries mellow into loud hiccups and her pudgy fingers grip onto your crisp shirt like a vice. You feel the wet patch where her tears fell, but you continue to rock her in your arms. 

“Are you really gonna leave tomorrow?”

You almost didn’t catch what Elio said. His voice sounded so small. Far away. His face is downcast, picking at the fibers of the rug beneath him. 

“He misses you a lot, you know. Looks up to you, more than anyone else.”

Your father’s disappointment hits you hard. As stoic as Elio always seems to be, you know how much you mean to him. How much he means to you. How you fight tooth and nail to make it home for the holidays, birthdays, and everything in between. 

To the world you’re Seraph. The Burning One. Master of the Mystic Arts. 

It’s hard to see yourself as anything other than that.

It was difficult to maneuver on the floor with a crying child in your arms, but you managed to lie down on your back next to your brother. Lene’s cries dwindled to violent hiccups as she curled up on your side. You turn your head towards your brother who avoids your stare. Stubborn. You pat the empty space next to you. 

Elio hesitates. For a moment, he stays rooted in his spot, contemplating. At this angle, you can clearly see the hurt on his face. Can feel the hurt. A constant stream of deep longing that pours and weaves between the space of spiritual and physical. Between dream and reality. 

With the wobble of his lip, Elio scoots to your empty side and hugs you tightly. The river of emotions is more intense, almost washing over you. It didn’t take long for his tears to follow. It's a silent cry, one that shakes his body but no noise escapes.

His grip is tighter, his hold on your bruising. The lack of outward passion and vigor doesn't diminish the intensity of his feelings. More so than the normal person. 

It's why he doesn't run to greet you at the door anymore. Why he tends to play next to you rather than with you. 

You don't know whether he naturally keeps his emotions to himself, or if it's something he learned from you. 

“They don't want a hero,” your mother once snarled at you. Her wrinkled eyes would pierce through you, full of hurt. “You're their sister. Act like it.”

You don’t remember how long you stayed on the floor, staring at the ceiling. Your shirt was drenched with tears, spit, and snot but you didn’t move or push them away. If anything, you pulled them tighter against you. 

You didn’t cry. Your chest didn’t ache nor did your stomach cramp from the guilt. You can’t allow yourself to. If you keep crying helplessly whenever you leave, it will only hurt you more. 

By the time the sun dipped past the horizon, your two siblings had long exhausted themselves. You wait an hour more before gently carrying them up to their rooms. With a help of some magic, you managed to tuck them in their beds without so much as a single stir. 

A buzz came from your phone, along with it a sense of dread. 

Master Rokda: The Elders request a debrief of your mission on Earth 75-C. Do not keep them waiting.

When you meet your parents at the front door, they don’t comment on the fact that you’ve put on your sorcerer attire. You promised to be gone for an hour and be back for dinner. 

You pretend not to notice the crestfallen expression of your father or the lack of emotion from your mother. 

— — —

Energy still fires in your blood. Taunting you. 

You should try. The very least you could do is try to harness the power you absorbed.

It’s easier to move now that most of your body has healed. Sleep is now in tune with your circadian rhythm meaning you can stay awake for longer. Your hands are still tightly bound with gauze with only your fingers being exposed. The Doctor replaces the wrappings everyday so you can clean and examine the progress. 

The Doctor had warned you that your arms wouldn’t heal the same, even with the technology he possessed. 

You shake your head, clearing unnecessary thoughts. 

Try. That’s all you have to do. 

Taking a deep breath, you perform some basic maneuvers that maximize the flow of energy throughout your body. Stiffness in your legs and arms are expected, but the strain is difficult to push through. Your muscles still remember the placement of your arms, the amount of force with each step, the way your lungs expand in your chest. 

Your body is used to taking. Greedily absorbing any energy you come into contact with. It’s hard to reverse what you’re used to. To release rather than to hoard. 

The power of the stones sits stubbornly in your body and around your soul. Once frenzied and bubbled, the energy slowly settled as the days passed. Burrowing deeper, melting into any space between your cells. 

You feel your body warm up. Heartbeats quicken and your breathing gets deeper. Your tempo doesn’t change, only the force behind each punch and step. Again. Again. Again. You focus on precision. Every valve of your heart, every cell moving in your body. The way your nerves spark and burn around your arms, down your spine, surrounding you. 

Again. 

Again.

Again.

It’s slow at first. Barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. A flow of heat blooming from your soul, bleeding into your physical body. Streams of static curl alongside the blood flowing, and it creates a strain against your movements. 

As if something’s holding you back. 

Fluid movements slow. Muscles start tightening as the stones’ power solidifies. No longer a scalding plasma, but a physical force that locks your body. 

Again.

Muscles beneath your skin grow taut. Sweat accumulates, forming a film around you. 

Again.

It’s starting to hurt. The fluid precision is slowly morphing to choppy, erratic motions. 

Aga—

The tension wins out against your body, locking you in place. You drop to the floor, gasping as your knees knock painfully on the floor. All at once you cease movement; not even able to twist your neck or limbs. 

You’re trapped. 

You can’t move. You can’t move. You can’t move.

All at once, the orange walls turn into the familiar grasslands of Wakanda. It’s hot. It hurts.

A scent that is so sickeningly sweet and leathery that hangs in the air like thick smoke. It mingles with the ash on your clothes and you can’t breathe. 

Screaming. You hear it in front of you. Around you. 

Breathe breathe breathe—

You can feel it—God you can taste it. Your own flesh searing off. It’s in your mouth, all over your body. You can’t breathe. Why can’t you breathe? Why can’t you move? 

You don't see the old creaky cot you’ve been sleeping in or the mirror next to the porcelain sink. You’re still on the field—no in the jungle. It hurts, it burns, everything is killing you. 

I want to leave. I want to leave. I want to leave—

The air hums with energy. The floor rattles and shakes. Someone’s—something’s panicking. 

Your body caves in on itself and your cheek smashes against cold flooring. 

You feel the strong pulses of energy flowing beneath you. It’s erratic. Alive. Your body tries to siphon it off. No, that’s not right. 

The energy is coming to you. It’s warm. Your hand reaches out, trying to meet it halfway. 

You see the door slam open, a rush of voices, and a burst of emotions mingling with the warmth. 

“You’re not meant for this.”

A voice. Familiar. It’s angry, bleeding with disdain and hurt. 

“Can’t you see this is killing you?”

Your mother’s voice sounds so clear. You miss her. Even if most of the words you spare to each other are angry. 

“Give up. Give up everything. This life isn’t meant for you.”

No. No it wasn’t. 

Only when you closed your eyes, and your consciousness slipped away, is when the taste of your flesh finally leaves your mouth. 

— — —

When you finally came to, it had only been a few hours since the Doctor had found you on the floor. 

He had parked the TARDIS beside the Ponds’ house, hoping to pick them up from their family reunion. The moment the three of them entered the console room did the TARDIS suddenly start acting up. Lights around the room started to flicker and the room seemed to pulsate with urgency. 

It wasn’t long before the med-bay materialized and the Doctor found you lying on the ground. 

There was a dazed look in your eyes, as if you were caught in a dream-like trance. Only when the Doctor came did the TARDIS return to normal. 

A quick scan of your body revealed nothing out of the ordinary. A temporary paralysis brought out by excessive movement. Or so the Doctor says based on what you told him. 

You were trying to gain movement back and became engrossed in your exercise. Not an outright lie, but you didn’t want to remember what transpired. 

You’re tired and you make it known. 

Thankfully, no dreams come to haunt you. Or the night after that. 

— — —

A full week has passed. At least, according to Rory. It certainly felt longer. 

You’re glad they respected your space and need to grieve silently. 

You reap what you sow. 

Today the voice is the sweet, gentle cadence of your mentor. Late mentor. 

Yesterday the memory was of an afternoon brunch with Stephen and Wong. Warm pasta with the side of your favorite juice. A rare day when the three of you forgo the sorcerer attire and wear something casual. Of course, you and Stephen transmutate your robes into jeans and a sweatshirt. Wong tends to spend his limited paycheck on “real clothing”.  

It’s only fitting that tonight’s memory is a violent contrast to yesterday’s serene moment. 

You knew it wasn’t real. All of this. The blood, the panic, the body, was all just a cocktail of chemicals made by your brain. 

You’re fine. You’re in bed, you’re safe.

The Ancient One lies a few feet from you. Her golden robes slowly turned a dark crimson from the gaping wound in her stomach. 

You’re screaming. The air cuts your throat, your lungs burn with the force you exert. An ear-splitting screech that pulls your entire body with it. 

Everything feels sluggish as you desperately try to crawl towards her. Your hand tries to stop the bleeding but the wound cuts through her whole body. The blood is cold, gushing around your trembling hands. You can’t stop shaking. 

Something in the air crackles. A twisting feeling in your chest.

“Does it pain you?” Kaecilius asked, bent down to the other side of the Ancient One’s body. In his hand was a bloodied time shard.

You can’t force a word out. Pitiful sobs leave you; tears slide onto the sickly skin of the Ancient One’s forehead. Every shuddering breath makes it harder to control your body. The Ancient One’s skin is cold, infecting your skin with chills. Why is it so hard to breathe? 

It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s—

Kaecilius hovers above you while the other Zealots stand by awaiting orders. 

No other master is around to help you. They’re guarding the Sanctums while the Ancient One tracked her former student. 

Except they knew you were coming. They knew that the Ancient One would try to fight Kaecilius one-on-one. 

She made you wait with the other Masters in the Hong Kong Sanctum, but something in your gut told you something was wrong. A cold feeling that spreads all over your body. 

It was too late. 

Kaecilius knew you would come. He aimed the very shard in his hand towards you. 

He knew the Ancient One would come to block it.

Your hand trembles in a way that makes you angry—boiling with rage. 

“I’ve heard many stories about you. How the Ancient One sends you away on long, grueling missions into the multiverse. How she makes you take powers from dimensions above without indulging the true secrets to her powers.” Kaecilius gently raises your chin upwards, forcing your eyes to lock. “You can be something greater. Join us and together we could bring Dormammu to Earth. He is a savior. Our savior against time. Against death.”

At this distance, you can see the flecks of brown in his light blue eyes. No regret whatsoever for the deaths and damage caused by his selfish actions.

There’s a sharp sting where your nails dig into your palms. Suddenly, everything hushed. The crushing despair and endless anger swirl in your chest.  

“What are you going to do about it, Seraph?” Kaecilius taunts.

Your body jerks awake, chest still struggling to inhale. 

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Glancing at the metal plating of the ceiling, you reminded yourself of where you were. Not in one of the Sanctums, or your lush room in Kamar Taj, or your room in your parent’s house. You’re a very long way away. 

You throw the blankets off your clammy skin. It’s cold, unbearably so. Every hair along your body stands and your skin rises with it. 

Forcing your body upright was a feat in itself. Your limbs are still numb with sleep and your head throbbed in pain. Bringing your hands to your temples, you tried to stop the panic rising or spreading to your head. The last thing you need is to lose focus. 

He’s gone. 

Dead, along with the others. You made sure of that.

You took a long, deep breath. The stitches along your ribs throbbed as your skin stretched. You let the breath go with a shudder. Repeating the process again, this time with less resistance. Again, again, again until you can stop the shaking. 

Control yourself.

Fear would only make you vulnerable. Others could die by your inability to control it so you smother the fear, the panic, the guilt until there’s only an ache left behind. A cavernous hole in your chest that weighs you down. 

The room is suffocating, the walls are too close, you can still smell the blood—

You need air. Real air. Not the recycled stuff coming out of the vents. Rising out of bed, you try to find some way out.

In your unrest you always find yourself wandering down the corridors of the living machine. Endless halls, geometric interiors. An almost sentient being confined in a box of wires and metal. 

Although you are in the depths of space, the TARDIS tries to mimic night on Earth with its lack of lighting. 

Your vision is hazy and grainy, greatly increasing the risk of your tripping over. Placing your hand on the wall, you let the worn pads of your finger feel the traces of the TARDIS circuitry. Energy, old and powerful, dances beneath the wires and metal. As if to sense your apprehension, the walls slowly glowed a soft orange. 

“Thank you,” a hoarse whisper of appreciation. Your throat is still dry and swollen.

Warmth envelops your spine and the rhythmic pulsing of energy beneath your fingers. A thanks back. 

With each step you take, the more your body seems to wake. Keeping your fingers on the wall, you let the TARDIS be your guide. There’s no words communicated between you, just instinct and feeling. 

The hallway is short, only one soft turn at the other end. You can hear a faint clattering of metal just beyond.

It takes you a long while before you reach the entrance of the console room. A wide room with various lights, colorful wires, meta, and glass. At the center of it all, a large contraption with a mix-match of levers, knobs, and buttons. It was unlike any spacecraft you’d ever encountered, and you’d seen many. You were sure Rocket would curse at the lack of standardized spacecraft mechanisms. 

Beside the entrance of the room—the front door to the TARDIS—was a large hole filled with more wires and more circuitry. You try to stay as quiet as you can so as to not disturb whoever was tinkering. As you approached the hole, to your surprise there was no one inside. 

The air shifted behind you.

“Can’t sleep?”

Spinning around you were face to face with the Doctor; in his hands a wrench and some alien-looking parts. 

“You scared the fuck out of me,” you grit, loud enough for the Doctor to hear. 

“Hey, what did I tell you about that, hm? No cursing. My box, my rules.” The Doctor passed you and tentatively stepped into the abyss of wires. The hole was only chest deep, but he bent down so he could fully disappear.

You followed him to the edge, but didn’t step inside. 

Sensing your staring, the Doctor turns slightly towards you, locking eyes for a moment. Turning back around, he unscrews a few bolts. “Are your arms bothering you again? I have some medicine stocked up in the back of the cabinet next to the sink.” 

Sitting down, bringing your knees to your chin. Phantom pains still come and go, especially after a rough night of sleep. No doubt the Doctor put two and two together. 

You pick at the exposed wires jutting out. The rubber casing rolling between your thumb and pointer. Bright red. The color of your robes, the color of blood. “You’re right, can’t sleep. I should be too old for nightmares and yet, here I am.”

The Doctor stops his tinkering, standing upright so he can peek up at you. Pity clearly displayed. You try not to scowl.

“No one’s too old for them. Dreams are a reflection of your life. Nightmares, as much as we hate them, do have their purpose.”

You grunt, half agreeing. Because to him, dreams are nothing more than a cocktail of bad memories and hyper-active imagination. Nothing you say will change that. 

So you wipe away the discomfort, the guilt that bleeds into anger. You remember why you left your room in the first place.

“I’ve been walking on my own for a while now. A week at least.” You continue to roll the wires and pick at the copper sticking out. You feel the Doctor’s eyes on you, but you don’t mind him. 

The Doctor catches on to what you’re implying. “You want to go outside. On Earth?”

You shake your head. Because what good would it do to bring you to an empty imitation of the real thing? “I don’t mind going on a different planet. I just…I’m starting to go a bit crazy walking down the maze outside my room.”

“Thought you liked walking aimlessly for hours on end,” the Doctor says, leaning against the edge. His voice balances along the edge of teasing. “I have a box that travels through space and time. Anything you want—anywhere you want, I can take you. Any historical figure, any future figure. We can go to the first pizza shop, y’know because you’re from New York.”

A breath of a laugh escapes. “Very observant of you Doctor. Truth be told, I don’t want to get back to Earth. Not for a while at least.”

You try not to think about what you left behind. 

They’re resilient, you often have to remind yourself, They will survive. They have to. 

The Doctor, either choosing to ignore your sullen words or just happy to have the chance to show you something new and fun, immediately gets out of the man-made hole with a broad smile. His hand, warm and inviting, takes yours and sweeps you off your feet. Giddy and mischievous, the Doctor tugs you along to the convoluted and intricate console. 

You’ve peered at it a few times, often when you perched yourself atop the staircase or in passing when walking through the TARDIS. Never this close. 

Knobs, dials, metal, plastic, glass, and other random items welded or bolted together. Either true engineering feat or complete nightmare, you don’t know. The way the Doctor immediately goes to press buttons and pull levers at such a speed to where there’s a gentle breeze when he zips past you is fascinating to see. The more you look, the more puzzling the mechanisms. Do your eyes deceive you or are you looking at a rotary phone that is bolted to the side of the console?

“Time and space, all within our grasp.” The Doctor rushes to your side and whips out a swiveling monitor and a mechanical keyboard. “Since it’s your first time traveling, I do have to lay down a few ground rules. Firstly, do not wander off no matter how many times Amy encourages you to.” 

The Doctor types out something on his keyboard, the monitor displaying characters in some alien language. Pictures of a planet and charts of data appear along with some notes. 

“Two, never ever drink what’s being offered. More often than not it’s going to make you puke and have an aneurysm.” The Doctor spins around to smack and pull whatever’s in front of him. All of which is nonsense in your eyes. When he turns back to you, his gaze is serious and his finger points between your eyes. “Third, the most important. Always have fun!”

A lever with a cherry red handle is pulled down and the room shakes with energy. The TARDIS pulses, sings with power that flows and ebbs in the air. 

Your hands clumsily find purchase on the edge of the console, bracing as the shaking worsens. The sparks of energy lap at your skin and trickle into your flesh. Warm, tantalizing energy that makes you feel rather than empower. 

The TARDIS is alive. 

As if reading your jumbled thoughts, the energy pools toward you. Caressing your shaking body, enveloping you in a comforting hug. It doesn’t seep into your body and get absorbed by you, but simply hovers. 

When the shaking ceased, only then did the energy rippled in the air, settling to a stillness once more. 

— — —

The door to the outside opens, and the bright light from a foreign sun momentarily stuns you. First, you feel the crisp air kissing your face. Next come the smells of dirt, ocean, and salt. Shouts of street vendors, ships docking in the bay, and children laughing. 

You open your eyes and the light settles. Colors bloom into your vision with colorful signs, exotic tapestry, and anything that could possibly be eaten or made being sold in crowded huts. Clear, open blue sky and buildings that remind you of the bustling coast of Greece. Vendors of varying species, colors, and size all hustle anyone walking in hopes to purchase their goods. An entire city, alive and thriving off the coast of a foreign land on a planet across the Milky-Way. 

“The Veskarla Markets from the planet Tresh,” the Doctor says with pure delight, “Haven’t been here in centuries. Met their queen once, she was a very nice lady. Though, she would later put a nasty bounty on me. It’s not my fault that I didn’t know chickens were seen as a declaration of war.”

Amy steps in next to him, observing the scene in front of her. “You really start cracking open history books before going to places. Would save us from all the trouble you keep bringing.”

The Doctor sniffs, fixing his tie. “Reading history is not my style. No, I would much rather experience history rather than think about it from a dingy old book. It’s good for you.”

You ignore the chatter, focusing on securing the black leather gloves you nabbed from one of the costume closets. The cloak you adorn is light with breathable cotton and slightly bigger on you. The color of the midnight sky, swallowing you from head to toe. A stark contrast to the lively colors that surround you. 

Taking in a deep inhale, you relish in the soothing the air gives your lungs. The stuffy ventilation from the TARDIS is slowly leaving your body. 

“Now remember,” the Doctor warns, pointing between the Ponds. “Stick together. We have fresh meat here with us and I don’t want to get into another nasty skirmish with Treshian royalty. No adventures today. Just simple, fun leisure.”

Rory scoffs, “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

Amy skips over to you and links up your arms. “You boys get more food and supplies. We’ll venture in the markets.”

The two men nod and scurry away into the depths of the city. The Doctor excitedly mouths off any fact he can remember about Treshian wildlife while Rory tries to read off a supplies list. It took only a few seconds before a current of people swept them out of your sight. 

You look back at the tall blue box that is parked in a very obvious area. It sat snugly beside two open restaurants facing the main road. 

“Wouldn’t someone notice the TARDIS there?” you ask, pointing at the very conspicuous timecraft. 

Amy waves her hand dismissively. “Trust me, the Doctor left it parked outside Buckingham Palace when Queen Victoria first ascended the throne. If no one on the streets of London cared, I think we’re safe here.”

That was another thing you were getting used to. The jarring recounts of time-travel that slip into every conversation. A part of you still doesn’t believe their stories or the figures they’ve met. You’re glad that the Doctor decided to simply travel through space rather than time; the mere idea of time-travel feels taboo to even think about.  

Weaving through the sea of people is difficult when Amy is speed walking effortlessly, practically tugging you by the arm. Your steps, whether it be from the lack of exercise or grogginess, are far less graceful. A few times your boot hits a stay cobblestone or your shoulder roughly hits a pedestrian. Somehow, you manage to stay linked with Amy. 

“Two fish! Great price, the best in the galaxy!”

A vendor with purple hyde and jagged yellow teeth shove two fish in your vision. His many eyes on his face stare expectantly. You peek around the cramped shop, eyeing the walls of fishing rods and weathered nets. Clear basins filled with various marine life are tucked beside the vendor. All the colorful fish were clearly displayed, while the ordinary ones were stored in the depths of the shop. 

Before you could utter a reply, Amy manages to haul your body down the block. You force your stiff legs to carry you faster until you’re walking in tandem. 

“That vendor—Did he speak English? How come I can read the signs posted?” Your eyes follow the cluttered wooden huts and their weathered signs. On a different planet with various species that no doubt immigrated here, there should be shouting in different languages and tongues.

Amy laughs, bumping her shoulder with yours. “The Doctor didn’t explain? Typical. I can’t explain in detail, but the TARDIS can go into your brain and translate everything for you. Words, shouts, anything really.”

Everything you learn about the TARDIS, both from your own observation and tidbits of what others tell you, makes your decades of knowledge of the arcane feel rudimentary. Science that borders on sorcery would be revolutionary back home. A strange universe indeed.

The two of you continue down the single street along the edge of the city. Vendors continue to shout and shove. There seemed to be an endless, unbreaking street with hoards of people acting as a current to pull you through. The worn shoes you hastily put on were not ideal for walking. The tough soles of your boots feel more stone than rubber. You don’t complain, having needed the exercise after essentially being a human vegetable for a week. 

You quickly realized that Amy was looking to do more personal shopping rather than gather items from the Doctor’s supply list. Each shop you stopped inside was ornate and featured odd trinkets. While Amy converses with the vendors, you tend to hover behind like a shadow. 

For an intergalactic merchant hub, Veskarla lacked any shops for weapons or machinery. From the hundreds of shops you’ve passed through, there only seemed to be fish, jewelry, or clothes for sale. Any knives being showcased were for decoration only, often using shells for the blade and gold plated wood. Perhaps there was a different district that handled metal and tools. 

After passing by a myriad of fish sellers and net makers, Amy finally stops by a large shop. It’s lavish with teal paint and gold trim around the frames of the large glass windows. Large, chunky pearl necklaces the color of iridescent snow enticed your eyes. 

Amy lets out a low whistle, taking in the shiny entrance. “It doesn’t hurt to take a peek, right?” 

Amy’s sight has caught a beautiful bracelet made from pearls and gold. In fact, the entirety of the shop is dripping with dazzling gems and shiny trinkets. What made the pearls and gold special is that it lets out a twinkling sound whenever there is a breeze passing by. You seemed to have entered a more wealthy part of the markets as now the crowd has dwindled to about half than it was before. The people around you have more intricate clothing with gems and pearls sewn into them. Vesklara is a city of seafood and jewels, judging from how even the lower income district of the town seemed to also carry these goods, albeit at a lower quality. 

Immersed in the distinctions between Orthalian gold or Treshian silver, Amy doesn’t notice your wandering gaze. While the crowd had certainly diminished, it doesn’t mean there wasn’t a myriad of beings still pushing their way through the markets. Very little seemed to interest you. Most of the items sold were nothing you haven’t seen before. 

After taking a glance around the store, you ended up going back outside. A warm breeze brushed over you, carrying the smell of the sea with it. 

You were glad to have a change in scenery. The nightmare that befell you hours before is now at the back of your mind. Being grounded, tethered to a living, thriving city with people and stone to stand on brings an ease back to your body. It doesn’t replace the electric hum of the atmosphere back home, but it does allow you to feel connected to the space around you. You feel the rush of excitement, the displeased customers, the swell of pride for a city that is the crowned jewel of Tresh. So caught up in your musing, you almost failed to hear the stall across from you, across the sea of beings. 

A boy, whose back faces you is pleading with a grumpy vendor. His clothes are dirty and ragged with spindly limbs and matted hair. You peer over to Amy, to see her still obsessing over the bracelets. 

Without a second thought, you cross between the crowds of people. Limbs and pointed joints shove into your body, but you force yourself through. When you exit out of it, you find yourself next to the small boy. You can see just how frayed the edges of his shirt are. How the deep blue skin in his legs and arms are smeared with dirt and scrapes. His long black braid has leaves sticking out of it. 

“Please sir. Just let me try once,” the boy, who looked no older than ten, asks pitfully. “I’ve been saving for a while now and—”

The vendor grunts out, slamming his fist against the wooden counter. “How many times do I have to tell you boy? We don’t serve your kind here.” 

You see how the boy’s face crumpled. His shoulders cave and his lip wobbled. “Please…just once. If I lose, then you will never hear from me again.”

The vendor laughs at that. Cruel and full of teeth. You step back to see what the man is selling—or rather promoting. 

Proto’s Festivities! Try Your Luck or Buy Trying!

Three red targets are parched behind the counter, similar to ones in amusement parks. There’s scratches and indents, but more so on the wall behind them. When you look to the side, you see a stack of daggers hanging from the wall, blunt from repeated use. What really caught your attention was the ornate items dangling from the ceiling. Pearl necklaces, polished leather shoes, and laced fabrics encased in gold. 

“Can I help you lady?” 

Your attention snaps to the large alien who stands behind the counter. His face looked like an unholy union between a pig and a snake; reptilian eyes and mouth with a large snout placed in between. The collar of his shirt is stained with grease and the purplish hue of his skin glistened with sweat. 

Proto towers above you with a questioning gaze. 

“Do you serve humans?” you ask, sharper than you realized. 

Proto’s beady yellow eyes scan you from head to toe. A noise, something akin to a snarl, emits from his throat. Scratching at his chin, he answers, “Not my preferred customer. But I suppose money is money.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. “Then let me play in place of the boy.” 

The child’s eyes widened, mouth agape. He takes a small step towards you, a small look of hope graces his features. “Y-You would do that?”

Proto lets out another laugh, louder than the first. It drones on for a few seconds longer than necessary, and he goes to wipe his eye with a pudgy finger. He wheezes, “You—ha—You’re gonna play for him, yeah? You and your tiny human form? Is this a joke?”

You reach out your hand towards the boy expectantly. His hold on the gold coins in his hands tightens, just for a moment. Then, he relinquishes his hold, placing the heavy currency on your palm. The leather in your gloves squeaks when you close your hand. 

Slamming the coins down on the counter, you cease the light-hearted attitude of Proto. “The goal is to hit the targets, correct? Money is money. Let me play.” 

Proto’s eyes narrow at you in suspicion. Picking up one of the three coins, he holds it up to his face, inspecting every groove minted on the metal. Once he deems the coins genuine, he looks at you with wickedness on his face. A grin that shows the rows of teeth caked in plaque. 

His hand reaches for the knives hanging on the wall, picking off the shortest and dullest ones from the set. His face inches towards yours with a condescending grin. “Yes, you simply hit the targets and your efforts will be rewarded. Simple as that.”

There’s a concerning amount of insincerity dripping from his voice; glee and dishonesty practically oozing from every word. Proto slides the knives to you whilst pulling the coins towards him with his other hand. 

You take in one of the knives, flipping it in your hand experimentally. There seemed to be no weird center of gravity or any odd characteristics that might give away foul play. You can make do with the dull edge. Looking at the targets ahead, you can easily make the throw blindfolded. You move to raise the knife, but Proto stops you. 

His finger wags in your face. “Ah, ah, ah. I didn’t say we could start yet.” 

You hear the click of a button, then the whirr of machinery. 

The red targets seemed to jerk and slide, the machine beneath them creaking and groaning from overuse. Red circles move from side to side. There’s no pattern to the speed or direction of the targets’ movements. 

Your lips curl to a snarl, at which Proto starts laughing once again. 

“Oh! Is the tiny human regretting her choices already?” Proto slaps his leg as he wheezes out another belly laugh. “Look at that face! You’re practically seething! Ha!”

This son of a bitch.

You ignore the howling mass of scum behind the counter, focusing on the blurring vision of red targets. Gripping the tip of the knife, you steady your breathing, bracing your knees. A lingering, dull throb still haunts you, but you ignore it. Focus. 

Twisting the knife in your hands, you try to find the target with the slowest movement. Judging by the choppy movements and run-down shop, Proto might’ve never had any repairs. You can make out the large patches of rust and hear how the gears catch onto one another. A harsh, screeching sound that barely makes the targets falter. Click, click, click. You stand still, counting the gap between each miniscule falter of the machine. 

Ten seconds exactly. 

Proto’s laugh continues. He grins, wider this time. “Is the tiny human having second thoughts? I forgot to mention this before, but no refunds. Ha!”

You quell the urge to dig the blade into the gummy flesh in his thick neck. It might take some hacking, but it would be worth it to shut him up.

The squeaks of the machine snap your focus back. You take a steady inhale, clearing your mind of murderous thoughts. This wasn’t about you. 

Focus. 

Metal scrapes against metal in an awful pitch. The targets blur, and the laughing continues. 

You hear the familiar click, click, click. 

Inhale. One. Two. Three.

Quick as a whip, your body snaps in motion and the blade lodges cleanly into one of the targets. 

A gasp comes from the boy beside you. Proto’s howls of laughter cease. 

Another knife finds its way in your hand and you repeat the motions. You eye a target, trying to predict its motion. Whatever force you exerted on the first target had altered the motion of the machine. It was slower and the falter in of the targets’ movements were longer. 

Click, click, click. In another flash, the knife lands clean in the middle of another target. 

You hear the shuffle of feet and the whispers of passersby.

“There’s no way she would make that shot.”

“Isn’t that Proto? I thought he was still in jail.”

“Come on! Shoot it already!”

A crowd has formed behind you, but your sole focus is the last of the shuffling targets. 

Its movements are faster than the last two. Almost a blur of red that dances between one side of the stall to the next. Your body tenses, being still longer than previous tries. Your brows furrow, your muscles flexing beneath your skin. 

Proto seethes in his corner, nostril flaring like an animal. The crowd draws nearer, trying to get a better look at what you’re doing. 

Excitement buzzes in the air. Fueling you. 

The scrape against metal, and the tune of click, click, click. 

One.

Two. 

Three.

The knife whistles in the air, the crowd goes still. Wood snaps and buckles, caving under the pressure of your throw. 

For a split second, your heart stops. Then, a wild cheer erupts behind you. 

Under the sheer power of your throw, the target snapped backward, nearly breaking off the machine entirely. Still, your knife sits lodged in the wood, swinging erratically with the rest of the set. The machine lets out one last howl before the rust and age finally forces it to stop. The metal groans and creaks in protest before succumbing to its fate. 

Proto’s jaw unhinges, gaping at the sight. 

The boy with deep blue skin and rags for clothes is beaming. Tears prick his eyes and he’s jumping up and down in sheer joy. Before you could say anything, the boy leaps into you, giving you a bone-crushing hug. Maybe you were lucky that you heal fast. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” the boy squeals, pressing his face against your stomach. He releases you and points to an item hanging off the rack inside the stall. “That one! I want that one please!”

You follow his finger, trying to find what the boy wanted so bad. 

Red robes sewn with a delicate lacing of pearls and gold. Decadent craftsmanship that no doubt took months—maybe even years to create. You dare say more intricate than the attire you’ve seen around the whole market. 

You couldn’t fight the smug grin even if you tried. Proto looked furious. “You heard the boy. Give him the robe.” 

Proto huffed, looking monstrous and wrathful. If there weren't so many watchful eyes, you were sure that he would try to skin you alive with one of your dull knives. Begrudgingly, Proto marched up to the robes and snatched it off its hook. With a nose-flaring glare, he tosses it to the gleeful boy beside you. 

Above the cheers of the small crowd, you hear the familiar shouts of your group. 

Amy is jumping up and down, similar to how the boy was moments before. Rory hollers with the crowd, waving his hands in the air. 

The Doctor comes barreling towards you, clasping his hands on your shoulders. He shakes you with a big smile on his face. “Bra-vo! Splendid, that was absolutely—positively—brilliant! Well done!” 

Hands from the mass of people shake and prod you. Praise and cheer ring hollow in your ears.

When you turn to look at the boy, his toothy grin is aimed right at you. Only for you. Tears flow in rivers down his face, curving around his smile. “Thank you!”

Sincerity, joy, relief. It flows from the boy and straight to your chest.

Only for him do you smile. It’s small and beaten around the edges, but a no less genuine thing. Something warms the hollow in your chest. A crack in your armor, one that makes the pain erode away. Ever so slightly. 

— — —

“How on Earth did you manage that? I thought you would be stiff from sleeping all week.”

You take a bite out of your dessert, taking a moment to ponder Rory’s question. “One of the first things I learned when I started training. Knives were much easier to handle when you’re twelve.” 

The sky is turning a hazy orange and the shops along the coast of the busy town are still alive. The small café tucked away in an alley deep in the city where their hours of operation start when the sun lowers in the sky. 

After destroying Proto’s machine, you walk the boy to his family who live in a small house at the edge of town. Only when you arrived at his front door did he give you his name: Rivolo. His parents were both equally shocked at what the boy delivered and were eternally thankful for what you did. You were simply glad to give the boy a chance to have new clothes to wear. Though, the strain of your body lingers, especially in your upper back. 

For the first time, the four of you collect around with food and drinks, talking. It started with little stories about the last few hours when you departed. Rory bought a new weighted blanket with fabric that behaved like water. The Doctor tried bargaining with a seamstress for a new jacket and ended up being kicked out of the establishment. Supply runs and odd occurrences transitioned to earlier adventures. Mostly the Doctor talking about famous historical figures with such clarity it might as well have happened yesterday. 

“I did have a knife throwing contest whilst traveling during the Ottoman Empire.” The Doctor takes another heapful of shaved ice and condensed milk. His mouth is full when he speaks: “I still technically have another date set up. You’re going to come with me.”

“Is that a threat?” you muse, picking at your own bowl. 

“Most definitely.”

Streetlights that dot along the pier were the first to alight. Then the ones along the edge of town, until the cobblestone streets are bathed in warm light. Stars are beginning to twinkle in the sky and the ocean breeze makes the air drop significantly. It doesn’t stop the people who journeyed here from crowding around bars and enjoying the dusk. 

Rory is the first to groan out, stretching his arms over his head. He rubs his stomach, his eyes pinching close. “I think I ate enough for three. God, it feels like my stomach is about to burst.” 

Surrounding him were piles of fish bones and dessert bowls. At least he had the courtesy to stack them. Amy and the Doctor lean against one another, the former sharing her husband’s discomfort. You had the foresight to order enough to quell your hunger, not enough to inhibit movement. 

“I’ll clear these up, you guys get back to the TARDIS.” You take the hefty load of plates and bowls into your hands with little effort. “I can find my way back. Go before it gets too dark.”

The three of them huff and groan, slowly rising out of their seats as if it pains them to do so. 

Amy pats your shoulder with a grimace. “You’re an angel, thank you.”

Rory gives the Doctor his shoulder to lean on as Amy trails behind them. You couldn’t help but watch them stagger down the street. 

A family. A unit. Whatever the three hold runs deeper than friendship and would be an understatement to say so. 

Walking down the alley, you try to locate the front of the café. With the crowds of people blocking the entrances of any open building made it all the more challenging. You walk in slow, measured steps, careful to not trip over any wobbly stone that pokes out. When you do manage to slip into the right café, the sun has more than set. The chill in the air turns into a cold breeze that flutters your cloak and makes the hairs on your body stand on edge. 

You don’t feel safe. If you had the thunderous power of the multiverse behind you, then you wouldn’t feel so paranoid walking through the narrow alley. No weapons adorn your legs, no phone to call for help. You cursed under your breath. 

Pulling on your hood, you let the dark fabric cover you completely. You keep towards the edge of buildings, always scanning ahead for any activity. Find a crowd, blend in. Easy enough when the entirety of the marketplace is still buzzing. 

It’s hard to pin down exactly where you are. Your eyes squint in the low light, trying to find any landmarks to help you journey back. You don’t realize how lost you are until the crowds slowly disappates and the lamps along the streets get fewer and fewer. 

Shit.

You should’ve swiped the knives from Proto. A dull blade is better than no weapon at all. 

Straining for any signs of life, you try to backtrack your steps. Maybe if you make your way back to the café, then you could wait for the Doctor to come get you. 

Your foot was already pivoting before you caught a faint glimmer of red fabric out of the corner of your eye. 

Turning around, you see a familiar cloak with pearls and gold stitched along its side. 

Rivolo!

What better way around the city than the boy who lived here? With newfound determination, you follow the trail of red down another alley. Your legs are loose from walking, already catching up to the fleeting figure. 

Your feet soundlessly trek the uneven streets, bobbing and weaving through tight corners and miscellaneous boxes lying around. Rivolo seems to dash just out of reach, always dodging out of sight whenever you cross another street. 

“Rivolo!” you call out, trying to keep the fabric in your sight. The boy is a few ways ahead, delving deeper into the city. You quicken your pace. 

In a matter of seconds, you’ve managed to close the gap between you two. The boy is fast but you have a decade or so of running through the boroughs of New York under your belt. You push through the burn in your muscles. Your hand stretches outward and you catch the scruff of the hood. 

With a twist, you reel the boy back and spin his small body around. 

Your chest heaves, putting your hands on your knees. “I’m so sorry, I tried calling you but you were too far away. I need some he—”

You freeze, the blood in your body running cold. 

The person you’ve tracked down wasn’t the innocent boy with a long braid and toothy grin. In the low light, you can clearly see the robe this stranger adorns. The intricate stitching, the same glimmering pearls that twinkle under the light. You reel back, as if the sight of it offends you. 

Whatever you caught looked almost human. Its flesh was a ghostly pale that looked sickly under the streetlights. Gaunt face with a long nose and bulging eyes. His iris looks like a small pinprick, wild and focused on you. No hair on his head or on his face. When you observe longer, you see the imprint of scales along his skin. 

You narrow your gaze, your voice an echo in the silent alley as a deadly whisper. “Where did you get that cloak?”

The alien eyes you up and down, tilting his head to the side. His words are impish, almost nasally in tone. “Hm? Who are you? You don’t seem related to that Ikrallian boy.”

“I’ll ask you again.” Your hands shoot out, gripping the color of the red cloak. The alien falters at your harsh movements. “Where did you get this cloak? A boy named Rivolo had it earlier.”

He didn’t seem frightened by your tone. Boredom is set in his features, as if you’re inconveniencing him. He ponders for a moment, only for his features to light up in mock realization. “Oh, that’s his name. Did he have blue skin and freakish hair? Y'know, introductions never came up. I could barely hear my own thoughts because of his screaming.”

Pure delight drips from his mouth. The thing in your hands snickers as if he’s letting you in on some inside joke. 

Your heart pounds in your ears. 

Something poked your ribs, and the man’s mouth curled to a sneer. “Now, now. Usually I don’t like fighting women. Gets too messy and there’s always so much crying. If you just walk away, go back to where you came from, I won’t have to gut you in this alley.”

The familiar heat of rage bubbled in your chest. Tension in your body cramps your muscles, threatening to snap.The knife the man holds starts dragging up towards your ribs, teasing the soft flesh there. The thing chuckles, his breath fanning your face. 

“Maybe I should. ‘Cause then you can see your friend…what’s his name again?” He tilts his head up, pretending to think. “Ah, Rivolo. He probably bled out by now. Oh—where are my manners? I haven’t introduced myself. The name’s Beetle—”

Your fist connected to his jaw with a sickening crack. 

Beetle’s body flies out, landing into the ground in a heap. You take lungfuls of air, trying to cool down. The alien twitches before rolling back to his feet. Blood dribbles out of the corner of his mouth, but his grin still remains. 

Wiping his chin, he hunches down, the knife in his hand gleaming in the moonlight. His nasally, gruff voice cuts through the still air. “Just my luck, a lady who can fight. Now I won’t feel so bad when I drain you on the street.”

His body caves in before he launches himself. 

You stagger to the side before you twist around, dodging his slashes. When he gets too close, trying to aim for the spot where your heart lies, you grab his arm and pull him across your body. Using your leg and stiff muscles, you use his momentum against him and slam him to the ground with his arm twisted behind him. In the quick second that he’s off-guard, you stomp on his hand, forcing him to let go of his knife. The knife, you realized, had dark substance caking it. 

Blood. 

You hear something crack before Beetle’s body rotates beneath you. Dislodging his arm out of his socket allowed him to sweep your body off balance and bounce back up. You land on the ground, your jaw connecting to stone with a pained groan. The stitches under your clothes throb painfully. 

Beetle swings his dislocated arm back, forcing it in the socket once more. He laughs at the face you make. 

A dull cramp locks your joints. Cold air and strained tissue squeeze your nerves, sending pain throughout your body. You try to brace yourself on your forearms, but a heavy foot stomps on your back, forcing your back down. Your chin collides with stone and your teeth rattle in your mouth. 

“I’m starting to like you like this.” He raised his foot from your back momentarily before slamming it down. Air is forced to leave your chest as you cough beneath him. His other foot is planted just beside your head, the other digging between your shoulder blades. “Maybe I’ll let you go just so I can chase you down the street. I’ll let the fear settle in, then delight in your screams when I finally catch you—”

You put every ounce of strength into maneuvering over to his ankle and bite. Your teeth sink into skin, catching the tendons of his foot. Warm liquid gushes in your mouth, spilling between your teeth. A shrill howl of pain and the weight lifts off your back. Beetle falls, desperately grasping his ankle. Blood seeps, coloring the pavement beneath him. 

“You fucking cunt!”

You roll to your side, hacking out the bitter blood into the cobblestone. With a grunt, you rise to your full height, swaying slightly.

A mouthful of iron is on your tongue. It mingles with the ocean breeze and sours in your mouth. Your steps are silent and methodical. Half limping, half striding to your target. 

The red cloak Beetle wears beckons you closer. Your heaving comes from the barely hidden wrath that bubbles. You reckon you looked more like a rabid animal than a human. When you approach Beetle, you grasp the back of the hood and yank it. His smaller, stout frame unraveled from the flowing cloak and you held it tightly against yourself. 

Something warm trickles down your abdomen. Bringing your hand to the bottom of your rib, you feel the cotton of your shirt being soaked. Your stitches torn and the thin skin broken. All the energy you had gained this past week has been sapped, leaving you trembling. 

You spare the alien a cold, withering stare. Your bloodied mouth is twisting to a snarl. “Thank every single star under this sky that I am not in full health. If I see your wretched face ever again, I will not hesitate to rip you apart. Bone by bone.”

Kill him, leave nothing behind.

Your voice sounds unfamiliar in your own head. A monotone, apathetic edge, almost clinical in nature. 

Another voice rings over. Young, still full of life. 

Don’t be the monster everyone expects you to be.

Peter did not understand the beaten path you’ve forged for yourself. Nor did he understand the continuous nature between black and white; to him, good deeds and bad ones are objective without nuance. 

Beetle is hunched, body held taut with caution. Gauging to see what you’ll do next. 

No matter how much you want to wring his neck like a stubborn piece of cloth, you can bring yourself to spare mercy. Just this once. You will alert the proper authorities and hope that Beetle is injured enough to not stray too far. 

Karma will see to it, sparing you of the role of judge, jury, and executioner. 

“(Y/N)? Is that you?”

A voice, accented and childlike. 

You back straightened, whipping around to the entrance of the alley. A shallow breath escapes your throat and relief washes over you. 

“Rivolo, y-you’re safe.” Your voice is raw around the edges, and you catch the unease in his face. You stagger towards the boy, bleeding and hurt. When you grasp his narrow shoulders, you utter a rushed, “What happened?”

The boy maneuvers to your side, pulling your arm over his shoulder. “I went to get food for my family. I was trying to get back home before a strange man tried taking my food. He stabbed me, but it didn’t matter. My species don’t bleed out easily.” 

At the sound of his voice, Beetle thrashes around. His head jerked and his mouth frothed in fury. 

“Of course you survived. Of course! Even after I went after your heart—just my fucking luck!”

Beetle rolled to his stomach with a murderous gaze. His teeth bared and his back hunched like a prowling animal. 

So much for mercy.

You hurriedly unlatched yourself from Rivolo and shoved his cloak in his arms. “Go find the Doctor and the Ponds. Run as fast as you can from here and whatever you do, don’t look back.”

Sounds of bones cracking turns your attention to the heaving alien. Beetle’s finger is shoved in his ankle, forcing his bony finger into his Achilles tendon. Blood gushed out more, spilling over his leg and arm. With a strained growl, Beetle rearranges the fiber in the back of his ankle.

Anger and determination pulse in the air. A warning.

“Go, go, go!” You shove Rivolo into the open street. He scampers away, and you see him retreat out of sight. 

You couldn’t anticipate the speed at which Beetle came at you. Without warning, Beetle sent a punch straight towards your stomach. As if his punch was a singularity, your body caved inward, warping around his balled fist. You slam against the wall, not even a moment to think before another punch lands squarely on your cheek. Whipping your head to the side, you feel your skull throb painfully and the vessels inside your face break. 

Beetle’s hand wraps around your throat and slams your head into the stone wall behind you. His hold constricts, closing your windpipe as he kneed you in the abdomen. Once. Twice. You try to squirm out of his way, blocking his repeated attack with your hands but you’re losing strength.  

You’re getting lightheaded. Everything hurts. Bile tries to climb its way up your body, but Beetle’s hand prevents anything from getting in your body or getting out. 

The sickly creature looms over your face. His earlier grin and playful façade completely wiped clean. “Do you know what I hate more than cunts who fight dirty? Hm?”

Another kick. Your organs contort inside your body, trying to accommodate the point of Beetle’s knee. If choking you out won’t kill you, internal bleeding certainly will. You try to muster a cough, only to choke on your own mucus. 

His face draws closer, into your ear as you desperately gasp and thrash in his hand. His words sliding across your skin like sandpaper. “An ugly, bleeding woman. No matter where I stab, you’ll always look gross and disgusting when you die. I suppose it isn’t such a loss though. I do enjoy watching your life get snuffed out. And once I dump your body on the street, I’m tracking your little friend next.” 

You don’t stop writhing, even when he keeps slamming your head against the wall. Even when he sends another punch to your face, bursting your lip open. Even when the next one lands in the middle of your face and you feel blood gushing out. It hurts, your lungs burn. Your soul rams against the confines of your body, trying to break itself free. 

His laugh is cold, void of any real humor. 

“What are you going to do about it?”

The words cut through your mind like an arrow. Everything stills, and for a moment Beetle's eyes morphed into a light, steely blue. 

Glass and stone contort, fractals that dance in the background with magic humming in the air. A blade made of air and crystal that drips crimson blood, the markings of Dormammu's power etched in your mind forever. 

“What are you going to do about it, Seraph?”

The hush of the world around you. A moment where nothing exists but the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your head. 

A goal carved its way to the forefront of your mind, silencing all other thoughts, wants, needs. 

Make him bleed. Make him suffer— 

The heat came first. A thunderous roar that synced with your heart, it flooded your body with a burn. Energy that lights up your cells and singes the ends of your nerves. 

Grasping the thin, pale wrist of your attacker, you focus the energy that’s building. It lights up your body with a crack. Beetle’s smug face falters. The bones in Beetle’s wrist snap and crumble. You feel the fragments ripple beneath his skin and his tendons bunching as your grip gets tighter and tighter. 

A blood curdling scream rips through Beetle as he jerks away from you. With his weight finally off your throat, you collapse against the wall trying to catch your breath. Releasing the hold on Beetle’s wrist, you stagger to your feet. Every ragged inhale sends shocks of pain from your midsection. Using the wall for support, you lift yourself up. Everything feels numb, your legs and arms feel like static. 

You watch as Beedle clutches his swollen hand. When he jerks his body, his hand rotates dramatically, detached from the forearm entirely. You give no warning, no ounce of preparation. Before Beetle had a chance to blink, you were already towering over him.

The first punch made Beetle’s head turn so sharply that you thought you’d broken it. A loud, thunderous sound came, echoing in the narrow back alleys. The sounds of Beetle’s ragged breathing and heartbeat were the only indications that he still lived. The next hit was just as hard, with no time to react. Each blow you deliver slices the space between you, turning his skin to paper and bones to glass. A precision that comes with years dealing with the worst outcome possible. A lingering notion that each blow you deal is fatal. 

Sometimes the flesh caves and splits where you hit. Blood splatters on your gloves, making it increasingly difficult to continually land punches. When the blood in his face makes your fist slide off his skin is when you move to kicking his body. Over. And Over. Wherever your foot lands, his body jerks accordingly. Again and again.   

Only when you stop your onslaught do you manage to get your heartbeat to steady and your breathing to even. 

Your body is a furnace. It trembles trying to keep whatever power lies in your veins. When you move, it feels distorted in a way. Your mind is still hazy from the oxygen deprivation, near floaty in feeling. One foot in front of the other, you move through the stagnant air. The thrashing, bleeding alien tries to crawl away from you. Your hands shoot out from your robes, catching his ankle and dragging him close to you. 

Mixing in with the salty ocean air and the blood coating your teeth is a taste you’ve come to hunt for. It’s sweet, addictive and delights you so. 

Beetle’s fear is palpable. As he lays shaking below you, he doesn’t tear his gaze from yours. 

“You hurt my friend.” Beneath the soft whisper of your words, an undeniable edge of wrath can be felt. “I gave you a chance to run and you used that as an opportunity to attack me. You’ve made your decision and I have no choice but to see it through.” 

The scum twisting and groaning doesn’t get a chance to fix his mouth before your foot connects with his sternum. Not enough to break it completely, but enough to knock all of the wind out. You can’t move effectively without the entirety of your midsection erupting in pain. You crept your foot up Beetle’s chest, seeing the realization hit him.

A barbaric move. But it’s clear that Beetle has already done more, if not worse, on innocents. When your foot meets the middle of Beetle’s neck, you ignore the spark of delight at the sight of his terror. You slowly apply more of your weight as thin hands try to wrap around your shoe. 

His feet kick wildly trying to land a hit but his strength is weaning. You offer him no taunting words, no remorse for what you’re doing. Beetle was trying to kill you from the start and it would be dangerous to let him wander. 

You didn’t want to spill blood on your first day out, but you’re too worked up to care. What’s another death to you? 

Beetle squirms, trying desperately to throw you off. Murderous intent swallowing his eyes, directed only at you. Whatever good he managed to do, it will never balance the harm he confessed to doing. He would be better off as fertilizer, the only way his existence would ever be a net positive. You wouldn’t mind if his dying breath lingers in your dreams. 

You don’t find it in yourself to care. 

Movement dwindles and the fiery passion is slowly dying the longer your foot lingers. Copper and sugar invade your nose in harmony. 

Beetle spasms and gargles. His already pale skin gets impossibly more stark.

Just a bit more—

You feel the air shift, a presence just beside you. But you felt it a second too late. 

A blur of black and a crackle of light is all you see before a powerful punch sends you flying backwards. Your body tumbles down further into the alley, rocks and sharp debris awaiting you with each hit. Your momentum finally stops when you collide into a stack of wooden crates, splintering the wood upon impact. You let out a pained hiss through your teeth, trying to move.  

Moonlight scatters where the streetlamps fail to illuminate. Shadows bend and warp most of your vision, but you spot the imposing figure easily. It’s tall, whatever it is. Humanoid in shape, covered head to toe in fabric. You’re too far away to see any clear details, only a vague, smokey outline where light manages to hit. 

Something else invades the charged air. For a moment, the pent up anger and murderous intent evaporates leaving behind something primal. 

Hairs on your body stand on end. Dread suffocates you. It surrounds the cloaked figure and you wonder how it managed to sneak up on you. 

Your body trembles, nearly collapsing down into the pile of broken wood again. The energy you’ve mustered up has already started to disperse. 

Beetle gasps loudly, wheezing with such ferocity you think his heart would climb up his throat. The pungent smell of blood and sweat hangs in the air, encasing him. 

The imposing figure doesn’t spare him a single glance or word. No mask or identifiable features could be seen, but you feel the weight of his gaze. An inhuman, powerful energy accompanies it. Grasping the leftover wood that surrounds your body, you force your weakened body to get up. To fight, to stand your ground. 

Beetle hacks and coughs. “You were there the whole time?” His voice is raw, his words barely intelligible. “Why didn’t you come sooner?” 

The figure offers no words or acknowledgement, never turning its head away from you. Your skin prickles and a dull instinct makes your hand twitch. 

Beetle turns his head, ready to mouth off to his companion. When he sees the figure’s hard gaze fixated on you, Beetle’s face morphs to a furious sneer. 

“You’re my assignment! Are you kidding me? What about the Ikrallian boy?” 

Your ears perk up, your body on high alert. They wanted you here. Beetle may not have realized, but he wasn’t just a simple passerby. Assignment…had they…planned this? 

Then it clicked. Maybe it was your proximity to the Doctor, perhaps they believe they could kidnap you to have leverage over him. You did spend a good few hours with him and the Ponds, traveling around the market. Why would they target him? For the TARDIS perhaps? Amy did say that it was the last of its kind. A powerful machine that could travel anywhere would be a target for any criminal worth their salt. 

But why Rivolo? Why target him? Cruelty for cruelty’s sake?

“(Y/N)!” A startling loud echo of your name, one that seems to have a series of footsteps that follow. It was behind you. “(Y/N) are you there?” 

Before you even had the chance to turn your head to the direction of the voice, you hear the thundering steps halt behind you. 

The Ponds are out of breath; Amy grabbing onto your shoulder for support while Rory has his hands on his knees. Their skin glistened with a mixture of sweat and humid air, their chests heaving with exhaustion. 

“We…Rivolo…help…” Amy could barely muster up the words, her head hanging low, trying to even her breathing. Whatever relief she had when find you was wiped clean when she got a look at your face. No doubt the blood from your nose had already crusted on the lower half of your face. “What the hell?”

Rory was already tensed beside you two, staring at the two figures in the alley. He cleared his throat, gesturing towards Beetle. “Is this why you couldn’t find your way back?”

You move out of Amy’s concerned hold, putting yourself in front of them. “You shouldn’t be here. Go find the Doctor—”

“There you guys are!” 

As if the mere mention of his name summons him, the Doctor rounded the corner also out of breath with the familiar blue alien boy behind him. The Doctor’s arms flail as he forces his feet to stop. “How many times do I have to have the talk with you two? Hm? No wandering! No running off in foreign lands! It’s rule number one when traveling. I don’t expect much from (Y/N)—”

His tangent stopped when his mind finally caught up with the present. His face frozen, looking over your newly battered face. Rivolo cowers behind him, clutching his jacket in a tight fist. 

You cursed under your breath. It’s one thing to have to fight, it’s another to look after four individuals who don’t seem capable of fighting. You’d barely healed enough to walk properly and now you could look forward to another week of mindless wandering in the sterile hallways of the TARDIS. Great. So much for a first day outside. 

Beetle hauled up his shaking body, his two legs appearing as though they might snap under his own weight. Hunched and heaving, Beetle clutches the midnight fabric that encases the figure. Even from this distance, you can clearly see the pure hatred plastered on his face. “Why wasn’t I made aware of this? I thought the boy was the target!”

It was then that the dark figure finally directed its eye-less gaze to the trembling alien beside him. Beetle doesn’t falter, instead gripping tighter on the fabric to stabilize himself. 

When the figure spoke, it was a deep, rumbling sound. Smooth and unhurried. It carried through the salty breeze as if they were speaking right next to you. “Target the young Ikrallian and remain in the city thereafter. Your duty has been fulfilled.”

There was something in the tone of his voice. Such finality, a sureness that everything that has happened was meant to be. Dominos falling into place. 

“Target the Ikrallian boy…” you thought, everything rushing in your head at once. I was their target. By attacking Rivolo, it would guarantee that I would try to follow him. Why me? They don’t know who I am. 

The eye-less figure slides his head in your direction. You feel its glaze stripping you, peering through skin and muscle. It shakes off Beetle’s grip like he’s nothing more than a speck of dust, stepping towards you. Feather-light steps with only the sound of plated armor clinking together being heard, its glaze holding yours. 

You force yourself into a defensive position, trying to lock into every movement. The figure stops a few feet away from you and you can make out the reflective surface of armor underneath a billowing cloak. There’s enough light to show the texture of the cloak and the buckles along its waist, but the place where a face should be is pure darkness. No curve of a nose, or sockets where eyes would be, nor a mouth to speak from. A smooth, glossy surface that reflects your bruised face. 

“Who the hell are you?” you hissed. Your warped reflection moves, highlighting the swollen jaw and caked blood across your face. “Did you purposefully lure me out here? Am I some unlucky passerby you just so happen to choose for your sick little game?”

The figure takes a few, slow steps towards you. The way his body moves seems streamlined; no unnecessary sway of his arms when he stands still nor any miniscule movement of his chest to indicate that he’s breathing. 

When he speaks, it’s calm, barely passing a whisper. Still, you hear it loud and clear. “We know what you are. Where you are from. What you will become. You will come to shape my past; I too shall shape yours. You will fight me, here in this city. It would mark the beginning of the end.”

“End of what?” you demand. You try to shake off the way his tone makes the hair at the back of your neck raise. The total resolve of his voice, as if whatever you do will make no difference. 

“The end of everything.”

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[doodle-pops]

Mr. and Mrs. Hours

Fingolfin x reader

Kintober 2023: Breeding

Warnings: fem!reader, breeding with the purpose of impregnating, marathon sex, mating press, a bit of fingering, did I slip in a daddy kink? maybe I did, a bit of praising, use of My King/Queen

Words: 3.4k

Synopsis: Fingolfin manages to keep you up all night, rolling around for hours into the next day, drenched in a heat to fulfill your desires.

List of Requests

“You want us to have children?”

“No. I want you to give me a baby.”

Had it not been for the firm grip at the back of your thighs as they dangled over the shoulders, bound by your ankles, around your husband's neck, you would have knocked into the headboard by now. Sweaty hands slipping to remain secure upon the fat of your thighs, massaging and digging into the flesh granted him assistance as his hips drove upon and into yours, knocking the tip of his cock against your sweet spot repetitively. The suction as he plunged in and out, the titanium grip of your muscles around his cock, refusing to allow him to reprieve or escape left breathless laughter slipping past his throat.

“Look at how desperate your cunt is for my cum, darling? She wants me to fill her up,” he breathed into your neck, teeth grazing your pulse and feeling it jumping under his touch. “You want me to fill you up nice and good?”

Nodding your head like without control over what happened next because all you wanted was to feel the sensation of his cum filling your insides, you felt your body being further pressed into the mattress. Hands scrambled to latch onto his sweaty back, slid off and landed into his biceps and curled their way into his muscles, loving the steel–like sensation as they flexed under the strain of his motion. The aggressive rolls of his hips and thrusts of his body jerked yours upwards and slid over yours like frictionless paper. His chest rubbed against the tips of your hardened nipples, rolling them around his silky muscles adorned with battle scars.

The body of a warrior which folded you deeper into the bed and had your legs dangling behind his head, anklet jiggling and chiming with every collision of your bodies, had stamina for hours. You’ve been rolling around for hours upon hours and that was all you knew; it was all your brain had the ability to comprehend. Nothing else but his name and pleads for him to fill you endlessly with his cum spilt past your lips. Nonsensical babblings were also accompanied by the mantra you cast which portrayed a whimsical grin on his face.

His fingers pressed your thighs further against your chest, prompting you into a devilish mating press, one you couldn’t escape from no matter how hard you tried—you doubt you wanted to after your request in the first place.

“Oh fuck! Please, please, please, please—fuck!” Wheezing out as your leg muscles trembled with the weight of his body being placed atop yours, your nails dug deeper into his arms, leaving behind reddened imprints.

A dark chuckle followed your squeals and whimpering before the loud sounds of his balls slapping against your ass echoed. The lewd sounds resonated wonderfully in the mind of Fingolfin, an inclination of his wife’s cunt being soaked and perfect for him to empty his release and take form. He could feel the twitch of his cock and balls at the approaching relief of flooding your walls again for the fourth time tonight—the creamy stains of his cum all over your cunt and his cock was evident of the marathon you two were enjoying.

Ripples of goosebumps spiralled throughout your body at the sensation of his cock deliciously dragging and twitching within your walls were felt. Even the loud grunting in your ear contributed to the goosebumps. In an instant, you felt him freeze, his body stiffening as his titanium grip on your legs tightened before a loud grunt echoed within the chambers of your ear. Soon, you felt another round of his hot cum flooding your passageway and settling deep within the walls of your insides.

Believing that it was enough for him to call it a round and take time off before he recuperated, you felt his fingers slowly massaging your legs and a deep groan in your ear, followed by kisses being peppered up your neck. One hand slipped off your leg and travelled to your lower abdomen, splaying around the expanse of your stomach and tenderly rubbing the area. There was a little pressure as he pressed the heel of his palm against the spot, causing the tip of his cock to meet with your sweet spot.

It was then you felt the hardness of his length embedded within you. He was still rock hard.

“I still think you need more before we’re positive you’ve conceived,” he clarified, lips dragging across your cheek and coming to meet the corner of your lips before landing a tender kiss. He continued rubbing the area where his hand was resting, however, in sync, he began gyrating his hips for his cock to move again. “You can take more of my cum, can’t you sweet pea?”

You were beyond breathless, mostly from the position and the weight of his cock nestled within your walls, grinding against your sweet spot like no tomorrow. Feeling yourself slipping into a trance, unable to respond, you tossed your head into the pillow and released a loud groan once his hands travelled lower and met your sweet bundle of nerves. Your body jerked in his hold out of oversensitivity after an earlier performance of him spending more than half an hour torturously sucking on your clit. Something along the lines of, “I must prepare you to take me with ease.” That nearly had you passing out before the main course of action happened.

“Fingolfin,” you whimpered into the pillow, lips parted and a bit of drool slipping out to stain the material.

To him, the sight of you drunk on his cock and cum after begging for him to fill you to the brim was prideful. A large pat on his back was delivered to him by him. What would he do to have you like this all over again?

“Does that feel good?” he murmured against your lips, eyelids fluttering against your cheeks as he relished in the sensation of your walls squeezing around his cock the more his fingers nibbled and toyed with your clit. The soft whiny cry of his name tumbling out fuelled him to continue with an invisible grin. “Does My Queen want more? Want me to breed you nice and good till you’re all swollen?”

Feeling something snapping in you as his words echoed in your eardrums, your legs started trembling in the strained position he held them. His hips were endlessly grinding, causing some of his cum to spill and your arousal to gush all over his balls and the bed. On your face, a few droplets of tears flowed from the corner of your eyes at the building of pressure he continuously donned on your poor body—as if you hadn’t asked to be folded into the bed.

“My King…” you managed to cry out, lashed fluttering open to meet his mop of ebony hair which turned into crystalline eyes and a lopsided grin.

Nudging your cheeks as though he wasn’t aware of the eminence pleasure your tiny body was being engulfed in, he answered your call. “Yes, My Queen?”

Panting and struggling to get the words out as his fingers toyed and pinched your clit, playing with your pleasure, he wailed desperately, “Please, please, please, j–just fuck me! Fill me up until I can’t take anymore!”

Those were the commands he enjoyed hearing you give him. Words of satisfaction and pleasure that made his cock twitch like crazy. He could surely go for another round, and another and another.

With the refusal to retract himself from such a pivotal moment in both of your lives, a silence filled with tension and anticipation sat in the air before the slamming of his hips came down upon yours. The loud smack of his hips meeting the back of your sticky thighs left red imprints from the sheer power of his thrusts, even the bed vibrated under the force of his thrusts. There was a moment when your eyes widened from the unexpected race he took off on and your fingers panicked, unsure of whether to remain locked around his arms or reach for the headboard. Surely the latter sounded more reasonable as your body began sliding higher up the bed with each thrust.

Your voice was stuck in your throat, sounding like hiccups against the vigorous pounding of his hips. It was difficult to maintain your focus on his eyes as they twinkled with sinister intentions, you were dying to roll them into the back of your head to see the stars above the canopy tonight. You were most certain you had seen them multiple times tonight in one sitting.

His animalistic tendency and urgency to breed and fill you up, a primal instinct which wholly existed among the members of the House of Finwe echoed like a warrior’s chant in his head. All he could picture was the swell of your belly, perfectly round with the life you created and your breasts; he couldn’t get the image of the swells of your breasts all supple and succulent, filled with milk. Perhaps you might allow him a taste one day… That was an idea for another time to ponder on in private; currently, the matter at hand was getting all his cum buried in you without going to waste.

Fingolfin could hear the broken whimpers of your voice, high–pitched and whiny in his ear alongside the obscenely slapping of his cock sliding in and out your cunt. It was an ideal melody only for him to listen to in private; a song he would replay to enjoy leisure moments.

Feeling some tension in his lower back, he straightened his posture but kept your legs over your shoulders instead. One hand was enough to grip your ankles, ensuring to not disrupt the flow of your anklet chiming along with the action. It dangled perfectly over your head and added to the magnificent sight of your sweaty body taking all of him, inch by inch. A swift flash from your tired face to where his cock was buried took him on a trip as he observed the motion.

The way your lips gripped and suffocated him, tugging him back him unconsciously every time he attempted to leave, or the slight puffiness of them from all the caveman–style fucking you two were having. He couldn’t resist releasing a deep rumble in his chest at the notion of how wild you two were rolling around in the sheet for hours. It was only the first few hours into the early morning, and he wasn’t even halfway through. There was more his body was able to produce and he was willing to empty everything into you for certainty.

Balancing on the ball of his feet, sometimes switching to his knees for better reach, he hovered without resting all his weight. His face dangled above yours, grinning and staring at you with those seductive eyes, luring you into giving him more of your body for him to fulfil your desires.

“Hold your legs for me, love, spread them wider for daddy,” he commanded before adding a touch of praise, “just like that. Good girl.”

Releasing the hold on your ankles, he left them for you to struggle to keep up and apart while he dropped his hand to the bed for stability. It gave him the range to properly kneel and drive all of him, to the base, into your cunt. The choked sob that left your lips as he did so replayed the earlier images of when he attempted this action. You couldn’t run from his cock like this, not with the way he was burying himself all the way to the hilt and your pussy betrayed you by gripping him like some blanket.

From your vantage point, your breath was laboured, and your body contorted into a pretzel-like position as he thrust himself deep inside you. Broken whimpers escaped your lips, echoing the sounds of a woman in the throes of passion. His substantial girth stretched you delightfully with each powerful thrust, and the rhythmic slapping of his balls against your ass grew louder and more explicit as his lower body cocooned yours.

His knees caged you in like a predator capturing its prey, his thighs pressed firmly against yours, and his iron–like muscles tensed with each clench of your intimate embrace. His arm and upper body enfolded you, leaving no room for escape. In that moment, you felt entirely at his mercy, his desire to fill and breed you palpable as he ravished you with an intense heat.

The weight of his balls seemed to increase with every passing moment as they struck your skin, swelling with his essence and the clear intention of leaving his mark. You couldn't wait for the next surge of his passion as he pressed himself into every crevice of your being, desiring to immerse you fully in the robustness and weight of his length.

 “Oh fuck! You’re so deep, God!” you wailed. You were barely holding on and unsure of whether or not you could for the next few minutes before his orgasm exploded.

Chuckling at your cries and exclamation at how good he felt, a simple chain of command slipped out, one that always helped him to finish faster when necessary. “Right where I’m supposed to be, love,” he breathed. “Now look at the cock for me, look at how well you take me…just like that.”

As he delved deeper, he could feel the intensity of your desire in the starry, lustful gaze upon his cock, sending shivers through his very core. Your captivating eyes had a mysterious power over him, driving him towards his ultimate ecstasy.

In this intimate chamber filled with the symphony of your passionate panting and his primal grunts, the air crackled with life and ardour as you both neared the summit of pleasure. The tremulous and fractured melody spurred both of you to reach new heights. To intensify the connection, he lowered his head to rest his forehead against yours, his cascading hair creating a tranquil veil over both of you, a stark contrast to the wild desire on display.

His eyes locked onto yours, avidly watching the rhythmic motion of his cock plunging in and out of your swollen entrance. The sensation of him surging through your velvety walls, repeatedly teasing your sweet spot, combined with the delicate touch of his fingers caressing your sensitive clit, enveloped you in an ecstasy like no other.

The sight of your eyes struggling to remain focused for a second, sometimes closing momentarily to relish the sensation before reopening, earned a breathy chuckle. His warm breath ghosted your face as he continued to look at his beautiful wife. Soon–to–be round with your child and thriving with life.

His length twitched again, and your walls grew tighter around him, increasingly on either end as the pressure built.

“C–Close, I’m close—” A broken and airy mewl, cut off by the intense pressure of your legs cramping and curling in on your body. From above, Fingolfin’s hands reached out to snatch your ankles, pushing your legs further apart through your orgasm as he continued to fuck you through the entire ordeal. Wanting to push your body into oversensitivity for you to take his seed better. There was no ounce of remorse in his eyes as he thrust into you, revelling in the bone–crushing hug your walls were giving to his length.

Hips stuttering with each squeeze your walls contracted, he wrestled with your trembling legs, not giving you the opportunity to push him away when he was so close. “Don’t fight it, love. Take all I’m giving you,” he unmercifully whispered into your face, panting behind the scenes as his thrusts grew sloppy.

“Tis too much…Fin—ah!” Feeling your muscles shutting off the moment his hips stilled and the warmth of his cum flooded your insides, you sighed and melted into the mattress, treating it as though it were clouds.

Gently clutching the sheets, he fervently filled you with his essence, and the pressure of his body settled upon yours as he collapsed. He was cautious not to overwhelm you, and he deposited his seed within your womb while burying his face in the curve of your neck. Low moans escaped him as his muscles contracted, releasing wave after wave, savouring the delicate grip of your walls caressing his cock and milking every ounce of his passion. His body quivered in waves with every enthusiastic squeeze you provided.

You both lay there for minutes, your breaths mingling, and sweaty bodies tangled with one another. It appeared as though he had no intention of releasing your legs from over your head for his muscles were still clenched as their grips remained firm around your ankles. Cramps were building and you weren’t sure how much longer you could dwell in the position now that you were definitely exhausted.

“My love, my legs, please,” you pleaded in broken form, hoping the message would be well conveyed. In an instant, he lifted himself off and took your legs with him to rest upon the bed in comfort. The loud groan that slipped past your lips the moment your muscles were able to stretch out, reverberated throughout the chambers and left a tender smile upon his face.

Following the actions, he pried the rest of his body off yours, pulling out as well and quick to place his hand over your entrance to prevent any of his seed from spilling out. The abrupt action left you whimpering from the sensitivity of your clit and his calloused hand over the entire region. Still on his knees and hovering, his two fingers were quick to slip in and push all of his cum back in, preventing any from escaping.

He was focused on such a simple task, brows pinched, and lips pursed as his fingers continued to pump the rest of his cum deeper to where it must stay. Taking the moment to thoroughly observe the fine specimen of a husband you had, his entire body was covered in a sheen of sweat, glistening under the flickers of the fireplace. His abdomen was still taunted, hair clung to his body like a painting and his cock was perfectly coated in both your arousal and…still hard.

“There we go,” he encouraged as he finished up his actions and came to lie beside you, pulling your exhausted body closer. Wiping his fingers off the sheets, his hands explored your body, massaging your thighs mostly from all the acrobatics he had you under. You were positive you couldn’t walk for the rest of the week, and his answer to solving a problem like that was to add more exercise to it.

Looking up to meet his distant gaze as he aimlessly massaged your thighs, you reached out to cup his face. “How are you feeling?”

“I believe it I who should ask you such,” he replied.

Snickering at the notion of him being right with his proclamation, you grew shy. “I feel fine, mostly sore due to your…roughness,” you managed to squeeze out.

Chuckling at the honesty in your words, he spoke up, “Well, when one has a wife with such a request, feeling ‘empty and desiring my seed,’ how can a devoted husband ignore her desires?”

The allure coursed through your veins as he repeated your request, and your fatigue began to wane. Sliding your hand from his face down to his firm length, you grasped him at the base, eliciting a sharp intake of breath. “Perhaps I still desire more, my husband. I haven’t had my fill yet. We can still outshine your proud older brother while the night is young,” you teased as you continued to stroke him.

With a sharp inhale the moment you squeezed his member, a groan escaped him. He swiftly opened his eyes to give you a determined look. Nostrils flared, jaw clenched, his hands moved from your thighs to roll you onto your back, ignoring any lingering discomfort. He hovered behind you, and his warm breath teased the shell of your ear as he playfully bit the tip. “I hope you understand the gravity of your request, My Queen, for I won’t be as gentle as before.”

Masterlist

Taglist: @eunoiaastralwings @lilmelily @koyunsoncizeri @aconstructofamind @ranhanabi777 @mysticmoomin @rain-on-my-umbrella @singleteapot @the-phantom-of-arda @bunson-burner @ilu-stripes @someoneinthestars @wandererindreams @justjane @justellie17 @silverose365 @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou

[voxpraxis]

lately i've been... idk if you can really call it "debating" but i've been interacting with some muslims in the comments of an instagram reel in which a young girl was speaking to a young boy (i want to emphasize that they are both children) and telling him that she wasn't allowed to speak to boys until she was married, because her parents and her religion said so. the boy was sad but replied with something like "oh, alright" and the caption & comments were all talking about how "sweet" the situation was. i commented that i didn't think it was sweet, and actually that's a horrible thing to put in a child's mind. the post never directly mentioned islam and neither did i, but everyone who's been replying to me is proselytizing islam, so. anyway, these are the points that have been thrown at me so far:

it's not wrong because both genders are forced apart from each other

in response to me saying it still enforces an extreme divide between genders and encourages them to see each other as opposites rather than equals: the separation is necessary to prevent rape

there is no rape in islam because of the separation between men and women, rape only occurs in western society because men and women are not separated (...because apparently we cannot expect men to not rape women unless they're physically kept away from them at all times)

rape does not happen between family members, it's just not a real thing, ever (incest doesn't exist?)

if you're interested in a girl you should marry her immediately, because dating leads to cheating

men and women cannot be just friends because "islam and science and psychology says so." one guy said it's because "women can't talk about cars and sports"

(i also got called a simp for saying i have female friends. can't make this shit up)

in response to me pointing out that what the girl is saying implies that she won't have any say in who her husband is: arranged marriages are better because they always work out and unlike western marriages, they never end in divorce! (i'll give you one guess why that is.)

similarly, single parent families and suicide are solely western problems

men and women are NOT equal

i need to shut up and respect it because that's their religion

islam cannot be questioned because islam says islam is true

and that's not including all the personal insults and threats i've received, in just a few days.

i will say this is one of the least challenging "debates" i've ever had, in the sense that almost no point brought against me has any logical foundation and is easily refutable. but it's one of the most frustrating because the problem is that they won't hear me at all, because islam teaches its followers to never consider anything else. it teaches them to accept exactly what they are spoon-fed as the ultimate truth. and this is by no means a problem exclusive to islam, but islam does this kind of control better than any other religion i know. people raised into islam are not taught to think in any logical terms - in fact, they're deliberately taught to avoid thinking logically. logical fallacies are the rule. so not only can they barely form a coherent argument in favour of their beliefs, but they have absolutely no clue how illogical they sound sometimes. when i point out a lapse in logic in something they've said, the response i get is "no, that's true because islam says it's true." no other explanation required. at least, i've sometimes heard people of other religions attempt to use logic or science to prove their beliefs, but with the muslims in these comments, those are unnecessary things to be absolutely avoided - it's like they don't even understand why i'd bother to use them. you can't use logic to get through to them because they've been taught to avoid logic and cling to the mantra of islam-is-true-because-islam-says-so.

[gaym0m]

Something people find very interesting about me and my likes, is that I find jawline, necks and collarbones very very very attractive. Like literally makes my knees week and my— ya know.

Anyway, because if this I’m so sad no one has done this so imma do it.

Not smut. Like at all, but definitely suggestive. I don’t think I could write coherent smut.

Just Ellie for now since I owe her one.

One more not before I start, the way you can see her whole neck AND the drool im—

Okay okay sorry. Back to the one shot.

Warnings: mentions of Jay, of course suggestive stuff. Uhhh I dunno Beth being a little shit lol.

Soft lips gently pressed along the knuckles the tattoo artist, the kids with their auntie meant you two had all the time and space in the world to enjoy of each other, mind, body and soul.

Emphasis on body.

Ellie couldn’t help but chuckle at you’re actions, the kiss on certain body parts she wasn’t sure had ever been kissed. At first she found it cheesy, but after months of dating she didn’t know if she could be without it.

Just like she was no longer sure if she could live without the gentle kisses you would place on her cheekbones, or even her jaw.

She wasn’t sure she could live without your arms squeezing her waist or how you would nuzzle again the area where she shoulder and neck meet.

Ellie didn’t know what she would do without your playful kisses that started on her lips and lead down her jaw to her chest.

Or the ones that started at her knuckles and followed up her tattooed arms till giggles bursted from her lips. (Although she’s sure you had gotten that one from the Addams family).

Jay was a lot of things, he was a good husband while it lasted and a great dad but he could never compare to the next door neighbor that stepped in when she crumbled.

He would never compare to you, the one that immediately had everyone (even Beth and herself) wrapped around your finger with your kind nature and over all loving attitude towards the family.

Her ex would also never compare to you, from the way you sensually ran your fingers through her hair. The gentle tug when you wanted to break a long kiss just to aim for her jaw.

Then from her jaw, to her neck and her collarbones.

She didn’t understand your fascination with that area, but she appreciated the restraint you showed the first few times when she still had her ‘no marking’ rule. (She wasn’t ready to explain to the kids that the much you get neighbor who helped them and babysat them every once in a while was also her. . . Lover?).

Eventually they figured it out, from shy smiles and “hidden” kisses when you two were too caught up in eachother to see that Bridge had entered the kitchen for a soda. . . Poor kid didn’t get a soda but she was happy her mom seemed happy.

Of course, Ellie sometimes still got a little (not really) upset when you’d loose control. Then again those were also the more fun she had on bad days.

Those were the nights when your teeth grazed her jaw, her neck, her chest. The nights where she almost couldn’t look down at you, her body too strung up in pure white pleasure that her head was stuck thrown back.

Sometimes those where nights where she was stressed out, and you took every second to appreciate every inch of her. Your jaw sore, same as your arm but that didn’t stop you. Nothing really did stop you until Ellie unraveled beneath your touch, with a silent mantra of your name and twitching legs.

Other nights, you had a rough day. Of course you would never take it out on her, but she would still notice. And she would tell you a story of a day filled with struggles for her, because while she wasn’t a fan of lying, she knew just how relax you felt after you carried her to the edge and back.

Those nights where slightly different, with you hands gripping her hips enough to leave pretty bruises (which she sometimes wanted to outline and tattoo on herself). The same nights where you’d leave a few more marks while laying out a roadmap of the love and adoration you held for her.

Those nights, her fingers were sore from gripping the bed or at your hair while she remembered to cut her nails next time as she felt the skin of your back warm up after she raked her fingers down the soft skin.

Every night was a pleasurable ride with you, but those nights left her legs weak even the day after. And marks which lasted more than a few days.

Those were the nights that would cause her to flush as red as her hair when remembering.

She could still remember the smirk on Beth’s face the day after one of those nights, they were meeting up for lunch after Beth dropped off the kids at school. Ellie’s legs were still slightly trembling and her voice still hoarse.

“Not. A. Word. Betty-Boo.”

“Hey I wasn’t the one getting ra—“

“I said not a word!”

“Okay okay! I would ask how it was but clearly it was good.”

“I hate you.”

“Yes I’m aware.”

As much as the teasing annoyed her, she did find it slightly amusing just how much of a mess you made her (and her pants).

[deadmenandthedivine]

DEAD MEN § the DIVINE

chapter eight: dead flowers and garden bugs

Maetilda Targaryen, First of her Name, was supposed to be many things. What she became was entirely different.

table of contents

trigger warning!!! this fic contains many graphic topics and depictions. such as but not limited to: dead parents, abusive parents, toxic family systems, incest, medieval misogyny, forced marriage, threats of assault (sexual § physical), actual assault, imprisonment, kidnapping, murder, blood/gore, uxoricide, familicide, PTSD and other neurodivergence. i will do my best to update as i go along, but please let me know if i have missed anything!

word count: 3838

Everything around her seemed so calm. The gentle breeze barely disturbed the gardens and branches above. The birds sang their songs. Even the sounds of hustle and bustle of King’s Landing seemed quieter, more peaceful than usual. Her sisters breathed calmly and spoke softly as they flanked her sides. They hadn’t stopped holding each of her hands since they had grabbed them and led them out of the Great Hall. The princess shook like a leaf. The casual air that radiated from her sisters disturbed her suspicions. Had they seen someone die so gruesomely before? It had been their kin after all. They had known him far better than she had. Did they not like him? Were they relieved? Whenever she blinked, she could see the insides of his head. His tongue limply falling out of it to rest on the floor. She could not remember such a horrific sight since Lucerys took Aemond’s eye. The cut was horrific, but to the point where she did not want to peel her eyes away. What was left of Vaemond was abominable, and she was frozen in shock at the sight of it. The image of it was imprinted on the backs of her eyelids. Her father had been so swift, so nimble, and so very silent. It happened so fast she questioned if she had actually seen it. But she most certainly had, it replayed over in her mind in a constant loop.

If it weren’t for her two sisters, she knew she would have completely left her own body. It had all been too much. If it were not for their interference, she would have caused quite the scene. Yet the princess could hardly think of anything beyond how the two seemed to be acting so normal. Her mind was stuck on it. Yes, they had seen violent deaths bring the end to proud men from the time they were small girls. Tourneys, executions, duels for one’s honor. She had seen such deaths too. But this one had been different. They had to have felt something. He had watched over them at Driftmark while their grandfather was off at his many wars. They had known him far better than she ever had. She felt guilty for it. Her emotions. She cursed her own audacity to put herself above them in such a manner. I am fine. What I saw was fine. It was nothing. I am fine. I am fine. It was nothing. Everything is fine. It will all be fine. With the inner mantra and steady breaths, the princess fought to regain control of herself. She knew she needed to check in on them. She was their older sister and she was not acting like it.

“How are you both? Are you well?” She finally forced out.

Baela scoffed out a dry laugh.

“Are you well?” Rhaena asked.

The princess nodded stiffly, unable to answer the question verbally. Her sisters stared at her unconvinced, “Congratulations on your engagements.”

Baela laughed again, a bit more incredulously.

“Thank you, Til.” Rhaena smiled.

“Jace and Luke have always been very good brothers to me over these years.” The eldest stated, “It gives me no doubt that they shall make even better husbands. I hope you will let me know if they ever upset you. I swear I will straighten them both out — promptly.”

“I fear no husband.” Baela stated proudly.

“Good, they are not worth your fear. You’ll see once we eventually go riding.”

“I believe that we have been suitably matched.” Rhaena smiled, “Our future titles are quite fitting too.”

“Lady of Driftmark and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. They suit you very much. You will make a good queen someday, Baela,” The princess nodded, “Did you know ahead of time?”

“Yes.” Baela shrugged.

“Grandmother told us of the offer late in the night, but she did not tell us that she had accepted it.” Rhaena clarified, “But I am sure you have had plenty of proposals. Any pretty ones?”

The eldest sister shrugged. Her chest tightened again at the reminder of her perpetual solitude and shame. It seemed to be the only topic of discussion amongst the Seven Kingdoms. Soon, she would undoubtedly be considered a laughingstock. The proposals would surely slow over the next few years, if she was lucky they hadn’t already stopped. With every question, it seemed her days were dwindling. How long until she was referred to as the Spinster of Runestone? A dry, ugly hag? She would be mocked at every tourney, feast, or social gathering, perhaps even in songs. The sneers and taunts already echoed in her ears. Who would wed her after that? Certainly no one the those of Runestone would be pleased with. From how her knights spoke of other lords when they thought she couldn’t hear, she was sure of it. Would they even let her in her own castle if they didn’t approve? Hopefully Shrykos would be enough to convince them. But what if she wasn’t? What if the proud men of the Vale would rather see death by fire than an unwed spinster as their Lady? Like Vaemond would rather commit treason than see Rhaenyra’s son rule his family seat. It was a rigidly noble stance to take. Yet she could not blame them. Especially those of Runestone. They did not know her. They only knew of her parents, one they cherished and the other they wholeheartedly condemned. She had been cursed at conception perhaps. Parents such as hers should have never been given a child.

“No, uhh,” Maetilda answered quickly after realizing how long she had been lost in her thinking, “If there are, I do not know of a single one.”

Clutching her necklaces, Baela gasped, “That’s not true.”

“Certainly you have suitors, sister. Lining up all the way from the Iron Islands to Yi Ti.” Rhaena’s brows were furrowed as she looked at the princess with suspicion.

“Very sweet of you both. But there is not much that I can do about any of it.”

“I will have a word with Grandmother.” Rhaena disagreed.

“Grandmother can’t fix everything, Rhaena.” Baela retorted.

“If she cannot fix it, she will show us what to do.”

“No need, it is fine. I will be fine.”

“Maetilda, you do not look like you will be fine.” Rhaena stated matter of factly.

“What are you insinuating?”

“The way you looked at father in the Throne Room. You were terrified of him.” Baela crossed her arms.

“He was— It is fine. I was just shaken up from what happened. There is nothing to worry about.”

“I take offense to how stupid you must think we are.” Baela scoffed.

“Baela!” Rhaena scolded.

“I am not going to apologize! She is the one who called us stupid.”

“I made no such accusation!”

“You deem me a liar now? The gall on this one, Rhaena! Can you believe her?”

“I could call you worse things, if you would prefer.” The princess smirked, not being able to pass up the opportunity to make such a threat.

“I could call your mother worse things!” Baela stuck out her tongue childishly.

“I am sure your mother would be very pleased to hear what you have to say.”

“You may call for my mother all you like, she will not answer.”

“Do not underestimate her!”

“Pardon my lapse of judgment, your mother did call for me just the other day.”

“That is enough! Both of you.” Rhaena finally butted in.

“Now the fun is dead too.” Baela rolled her eyes.

“Since when were you the responsible one?” Maetilda teased.

“Since I was stranded in a Keep with grandmother and this one for years on end.” Rhaena smiled smugly as she gestured toward her older twin sister.

“My deepest apologies.” The princess grinned genuinely as her two sisters giggled alongside her.

The three seemed significantly more relaxed as they continued to pace about the gardens together. There was something so delightfully soothing about reuniting after so long. Like she could breath without any residual tightness in her chest. The last time they had seen each other had been the twins’ last nameday, their seven and tenth. The girls had gone riding over Driftmark together on their dragons. Their father had hired Pentoshi street performers and Norvosi bell dancers to entertain them as a reminder of their shared youth. The festivities and celebration lasted for days. By the end of it, the bell dancers had taught the girls a few moves and they had started to develop a tolerance to Dornish wine. Each night, they would drink more cups than the last until they would end up dancing up and down the corridors. It had been one of the best nameday celebrations the princess could remember. Their father was always a lot more generous with his pocketbooks when it came to the twins. Despite the fact that the two had never been left wanting in the care of their grandparents. Before the girls had dragons of their own, their parents would take them riding on Vhagar and Caraxes. The twins would normally ride together, either with their father or mother. Maetilda would ride with whoever they didn’t, which meant that she frequently rode Vhagar. Despite being the biggest most famous dragon in the whole world, the twins would almost always choose to ride with their father. The alone time with Laena had always felt a bit off to the princess. Her late stepmother had never been short of kind and loving, always spending extra time to help her with her stitching and calligraphy. She always made sure to hear the princess’s side of the story when the three girls fought. Yet atop Vhagar, all she could think about was her own mother. They would never ride dragons together. She was jealous that her sisters got to choose who to ride with. She was jealous of their engagement status. She was jealous of their caretaker and the elegance they inherited from her. She was jealous of the fact that they could keep their sanity in front of everyone. The jealousy had a tendency to eat at her insides whenever she was around them. She felt guilty for it. Such matters were not their fault.

After their legs grew tired, the three sisters took a seat on some shaded cushions that overlooked the waves. The sea mist was humid, but familiar. They talked for what felt like hours about books they’d read, frivolous gossip, and if they thought Rhaenyra was carrying a prince or princess. In reality, time moved differently in the warmth of each others’ presence. Eventually servants brought them tea and snacks, after seeing that they had ceased their walk. Apple fritters with honey and syrup. Different cuts of quail sandwiches, the perfect size to be eaten with one’s fingers. Assorted freshly cut fruit. Breads and cheeses galore. The tea was ginger, wheatgrass, and lemon. Maetilda added sugar to hers and they all dug in. The twins even ate as if their grandmother meticulously coached every movement. She tried not to gawk at her sisters for it. Especially Baela, who had always been the more rambunctious. Little to no crumbs fell. They fell silent while they ate, enjoying the food. Their lack of chatter allowed for them to take in the sounds around them. The crashing of the waves, the hum of life from the city, the chirping of birds, the passing bits of conversations from working servants. Even the buzzing of wings from the garden bugs that caught a whiff of the elaborately prepared cuisine. It was all broken by the sound of footsteps approaching, heard long before their owner’s identity was revealed due to the weaving of the garden paths. They were distinct, just like any knight’s. The armor was quieter at the joints. The crunching gravel from boots meeting the ground suggested they were made of a different material, almost sounding heavier. All three girls tensed as they passed looks of inquiry and speculation amongst themselves. Emerging from a path lined with browning bushes, one of the Cargyll twins approached and bowed. Ser Wyllam stood at attention and looked to his princess for direction.

“Ser Cargyll, good day,” Maetilda greeted, not entirely sure which twin it was.

“Good day, Princess, Ladies. You may call me Ser Arryk, less confusing.”

The logic would be sound, if she could actually tell them apart in the first place. She suspected she would lose that game the minute the brothers stood side by side again. Telling her sisters apart had never been hard. Even when they were babes.

“Pardon me for being forward, but what brings you here?” She asked.

“Not forward at all, I have been sent for a reason.”

“Yes, and that reason is?” Baela inquired suspiciously.

“My prince has sent me to see to your good health, Princess Maetilda. We are all quite shaken by today’s events.”

Her cheeks grew red as she felt herself sinking into her seat. Had she made a scene? Her father would undoubtedly have a word with her about it later. Especially if it was dramatic enough for others to take notice. Her sisters’ eyes bore into her worse than the sun on a hot summer day, “… which prince, Ser Arryk?”

“He did not want me to say.” The knight muttered.

“Yes, but I want you to say.” Maetilda smiled sweetly.

“Forgive me, princess. I do believe his order outweighs yours.”

“Whether that is true or not, we are certainly nicer to talk to, prettier, and some of those among us will be the future Queen, you know.” Baela shrugged as she glanced around inconspicuously and checked her nail beds.

“This is very true, Ser Arryk, you should tell us regardless.” Maetilda tried, “A strong, skilled, and valiant knight such as yourself should be able to get away with it.”

“I truly hope you can forgive me, princess, lady, and future Queen. If my head was not the wager, I would’ve already told you.”

Rhaena leaned forward like a lord over a war table, “Tell us this, knight. If that is even what you are. Why is this alleged prince not seeing after the princess’s health himself?”

The other two sisters dissolved into held-back giggles at the youngest’s genius. Even the Cargyll brother smirked. He sat his weight back on one of his feet and glanced up at the sky in thought.

“His grace is seeing to his brother.”

“Forgive me, Ser Cargyll. Your lack of answers is insufferable.” Baela grumbled.

“Truly! Do Kingsguard have no fun?” Rhaena teased.

“Not when under orders, unfortunately.” Ser Arryk bowed his head.

“Simply miserable.” Maetilda sighed, “You may fulfill your orders however you like, Ser Arryk. Tell the prince what you see fit. But if he wants to know the truth of my health, he must come find me himself.”

“I shall pass along the message,” The knight bowed, “Good day, princess, lady, future Queen.”

As quiet as a kitchen mouse, Ser Arryk turned on the balls of his feet and left the same way he came. The princess replayed the conversation in her head over and over again, milling over each person’s words. Her heart fluttered and sank at the same time. One of the princes had sent after her. The options were numbered, exactly five. Aegon, Jacaerys, Aemond, Lucerys, or Daeron. Six, if her father was to be counted, but he would not have sent a Kingsguard. By the same logic, Jace and Luke were unlikely to be culprits. Ser Arryk was not their knight, and they would have asked themselves. Neither of them were thoughtful enough to send someone after her. Daeron was not a strong candidate either. He was older than Joffrey, and likely at the age where he would have crushes on girls. A disturbing notion for the princess to think about. However, the King’s youngest son was also in Oldtowne with his great uncle as a ward. That left Aegon or Aemond. She really did not want the former to come looking for her. Something that she had just invited via the Kingsguard. The thought alone made her nauseous. Her stomach boiled and bubbled. He was married to Helaena, but she knew such bindings would not be enough to stop him from his pursuits. He could have laid the trap.

“Gods be damned, what did I just do!” She groaned as soon as the coast was clear.

“You took the reins, sister!” Baela proudly giggled.

“I cannot have the King’s drunken son harassing me in the corridors.” The princess snapped quietly.

“It wasn’t the drunk one. That’s who is being looked after.” Rhaena smirked, “Aemond is not subtle.”

“Aemond?” Baela sneered with disgust.

“Aemond?!” Maetilda simultaneously gasped.

“Baela, you cannot still hold a grudge against him. He was a wounded boy who wanted the world’s largest dragon for himself.” Rhaena sighed.

“Of course I can! I do not forget.”

“Sisters, we do not need to get into this. We don’t know it was him.” Maetilda attempted.

“He called Jace and Luke slurs. I would wager all the jewelry in my possession that he still uses them.” Baela ignored her.

“They both do. Yet one of them seems to have his eyes on our sister and would be politically advantageous.” Rhaena hissed.

“Politically advantageous or not, he’s not a good match. I will not see it happen.” Baela crossed her arms again.

“Father would never marry me to a Hightower.” Maetilda pointed out.

Rhaena frowned in agreement. Baela smiled as she threw her hands up in relief, “There’s always the Manderly Lord! Part of me thinks he has not yet taken a wife because he waits for you.”

The twins giggled until they cried at the shared memory from their nameday some years ago. But the princess felt knots in her stomach build at her sisters’ increasing interest in her engagement status. Briefly, she wondered if they could have an ulterior motive. They could work together to ensure her disgrace, yet their betrothal to the most sought after bachelors in the Kingdom took away all need to compete. They were no longer in the same race as her. They were promised. Soon, all of the Realm would know. It would be a disgrace for them should they not follow through with marriage. Neither Rhaenys nor Rhaenyra were the type to change their mind. In a perfect world, Rhaenyra would have a say over Maetilda’s marriage arrangements as well.

“Sometimes I wonder if father will ever have me marry.” She whispered barely loud enough for the two to hear, “Sometimes I wonder if he— what lengths he would go to keep my castle.”

It was as if all sound throughout King’s Landing and Blackwater Bay ceased for the span of a few breaths. The twins looked at their older sister with wide and shell shocked eyes. Their expressions were identical. The same sort of face that Laena would have made. It made the princess want to pause. The blood in her veins changed temperature.

“You think father would do something nefarious in order to keep possession of an old castle in the Vale? When he is to be King Consort?” Rhaena attempted to piece together the puzzle.

“Father does not want to be left without a contingency plan.” The princess pointed out.

“He has always been one to plot.” Baela nodded in agreement, “And brood.”

As the princess’s hands rubbed up and down the outsides of her thighs, they brushed past the bumps in her waist pocket. The stones were still in there. She had not moved them. They had all collected to one corner throughout her day. She could not tell her sisters. They would only run to tell their grandmother. She needed more time to find the caster and undo the binds. Princess Rhaenys would only put a stop to that. Panic flooded Maetilda’s every sense at the very thought of her losing such an opportunity to prove herself.

“Father is getting older, but he has time to change his mind.” Rhaena stated with a sigh.

Maetilda was not so confident. She pursed her lips to keep her dissent at bay.

“We shall convince him.” Baela agreed.

“We should go riding tomorrow.” Maetilda changed the subject.

“I have missed Shrykos!” Baela gasped happily.

“I do as well. She is not here. We all traveled by boat for Princess Rhaenyra’s sake.” The princess frowned softly.

“You must ride with one of us!” Rhaena insisted, “We could leave after breaking our fast. You could eat with us! We must ask grandmother.”

“Must ask me what?”

The regal woman appeared silently out of nowhere. Perhaps the bushes around them had disguised her footsteps. Their knights should have announced her arrival. Rhaenys must have told them not to. Each of the girls bowed their heads respectfully at her presence.

“We wish to go riding tomorrow, like on our birthday. May we please?” Rhaena replied sweetly.

“Grandmother, the skies call our name!” Baela interjected dramatically.

The Queen that Never Was smiled. There was a hint of a nostalgic gleam in her eye. Her hands that were neatly tucked behind her back moved to tuck in front of her.

“I may allow it. First, you both must come with me to ready for dinner.” Rhaenys sighed, “Princess Maetilda, I am certain you should be expected at dinner soon as well.”

All three of the younger girls nodded. The twins slowly and solemnly rose. Their arms hung limply at their sides as they glanced over to their sister. The three girls all shared goodbyes, with promises to reconvene in the morning. The twins' grandmother watched the girls with an unreadable expression. She was clearly deep in thought. Her eyes were staring forward, but she did not seem to be actively observing with them — at least for a moment.

Before officially turning to leave, Rhaenys lingered in her place, “There will be a family dinner tomorrow night. With all of you.”

Once more, the three nodded in acknowledgment. There was not much to be said. There was no room for argument or question. Only obedience. The twins began to follow the path out of the gardens. The same one Ser Arryk had followed. But Rhaenys did not move to follow them. She remained in the same place she lingered. Maetilda was almost too scared to look at her, to see what kept the elder princess from leaving with her granddaughters. Thoughts of what the next day would bring began to overwhelm her senses. A family dinner could only mean tension and trouble. Of which, she was already feeling overwhelmed by. Instead of looking up at her elder, she dropped her gaze to her lap in defeat.

“Keep your head up, Princess. Feel your fear on the inside, do not let them see it… lest they use it against you. And they will — do not for a moment think they won’t. They are jealous of you.”

A/N: i love a little sisters moment :P hope y’all do too!! i love baela and rhaena so much. the younger generation girl are all so precious imo.

also, thank you @marvelescvpe for your comment on my last chapter. this blog is linked to my other one and i couldn’t figure out how to reply from this blog on my phone! 😂 shoutout to you!! i’m so glad you’re enjoying!

xoxo messy

[djs-horny-blog-lmao]

Be a good boy and...? an OC hypnofic

this is the hypnoporn that let me win my nanowrimo. yes theyre kind of OCs it's kind of a from a crossover au if you have questions u can point fingers at me but:

Jamie (he/she/they) (late 50s( has been worming her way into a circle of rich friends, hypnotising, brainwashing and reprogramming them all into being good little hypnosub sluts for him. Aeor (he/him) (early 60s) is demisexual/romantic, though he has a husband and a wife who he loves very much (he took like 20yrs to fall for them) (he is sex favourable), but Jamie is persistent. Plus, y'know, a little brainwashing to speed up the process.

Jamie's testing out the triggers they've been slowly programming into Aeor, and seeing how ready he is. Turns out, Aeor's more than ready to break <3

about 4.8k words. contains hypnosis/brainwashing, programming, mantras, orgasm control, trigger phrases, dubious consent. Use of 'good boy'.

--- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Aeor isn’t sure how… or when, really, he became okay with Jamie sitting this close. But… Jamie has come to sit on the couch beside him, pressing a whiskey into his hand, and Jamie sits so close to him, thighs pressed together, and Jamie practically draping themself over him.

And… Aeor doesn’t mind? Aeor should mind. No one else can do this to him, apart from Martha. And Thomas.

But Jamie is taking this space. And… a-and Aeor is letting her. Aeor feels their fingers drag down his thigh, and he shudders but sips his drink anyway, watching Jamie from the corner of his eye.

“What…?” he finally asks, once his glass is empty, once he’s sure Jamie is watching and waiting for his reaction. “What are you doing?”

“I’m just testing,” Jamie says, and his voice purrs, and Aeor bites his lip because it’s just a nice voice to listen to, okay? Aeor didn’t think he had a thing for voices, he didn’t really think he had a thing for anyone (other than Tom and Mar), but Jamie gently strokes his thigh again and smiles at Aeor. Something dark. Something hungry.

“Be a good boy and part your legs for me?” Jamie asks.

Oh… Oh, a lot of things happen at once in Aeor’s head. His mind… his mind goes a little quiet, like it’s suddenly been enveloped in cotton wool, and any concerns or questions or worries he’d had – especially about what Jamie was doing – melt away. His mouth hangs a little open, his eyelids droop – though not fully closed, and he looks at Jamie through half-lidded eyes, and… and his thighs part.

“Oh, good boy,” Jamie tells him, and Aeor…

Aeor moans.

His eyes flutter open a little wider, he flushes red and covers his mouth even as his cock does throb, and he wasn’t sure he- he didn’t know he liked to be praised like that? How did Jamie know? Why is he not telling Jamie to stop?

He doesn’t want Jamie to stop, something in his head points out. This feels good. He’s safe with Jamie, and he can be good for her.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Jamie frowns, leaning in and taking Aeor’s wrist gently, pulling his hand away. “Don’t hide your pretty noises. I don’t want you to hide anything from me. We’re here now, and this feels good and comfortable, doesn’t it?”

Aeor nods slowly. I-it does.

“Good,” Jamie smiles, and his smile is a little sharp, but Aeor doesn’t question it, he just watches Jamie closely, waiting for what Jamie will do next.

Jamie studies him back, and their smile widens.

“How do you feel, Aeor?” she asks, putting Aeor’s wrist down and watching his arm flop back into a neutral position, and she watches Aeor’s jaw work until he gets words together, or… he does his best to.

“…Good?” he says. “Feel… fuzzy?”

“Oh, that’s normal,” Jamie tells him, and relief pools in Aeor’s stomach at her words. “That’s perfectly normal. All good boys feel a bit fuzzy when they hear how good they are.”

“…Good…?”

“Yes, Aeor. You’re a good boy. Especially when you obey. You like to obey, don’t you?”

Aeor blinks slowly. It’s all he can manage. …What?

“Like, if I said…” Jamie trails off, making a show of thinking, before they smile at him prettily. “If I said ‘be a good boy and touch your forehead for me’,you would, wouldn’t you?”

Aeor’s hand is already moving. His hand raises slowly, and he watches the movement, following it with hazy eyes, feeling like he’s moving underwater, and his hand comes up to his face and he extends a finger and presses it to his forehead, between his eyebrows.

H-his eyes roll a little? They roll a little when he does that.

“Good boy,” Jamie praises, and okay, Aeor is hard now, he doesn’t really know what’s going on but Jamie keeps telling him he’s good and that feels good and he keeps his hand at his head until Jamie says otherwise. “Relax now. Let your hand fall. We’re going to make sure you understand everything I want from you.”

Aeor nods slowly even as his hand falls, even as he slumps back against the sofa.

“You obey,” Jamie tells him, and Aeor nods. He does. Look at that whole hand thing he did before. Aeor wasn’t motivated to do that, he just did it because Jamie asked him to.

“You feel good when you obey me.”

W-well, that’s true too. He feels turned on and feels good and the praise is nice and he likes Jamie’s hands on him, actually, and he’d like more of that, but he feels too shy to ask. He nods.

“Obeying feels good. Obeying turns you on.”

Aeor nods slowly. It’s true.

“When I say ‘be a good boy and,’ you will do whatever I ask you to.”

Aeor nods.

“Good boy,” Jamie says, smiling. “You’ve taken to it so well. Now be a good boy and take off your pants.”

Aeor… yeah, alright. Aeor can do that. Aeor can see why Jamie’s asking. Aeor’s clearly turned on, and his pants feel tight and uncomfortable now, and he stands slowly, undoes his belt and his fly and lets them fall. Jamie helps him step out of them once it’s clear Aeor’s just a little too out of it to be fully in control of his limbs.

“Sit down, now, Aeor.”

Aeor sits down on the couch with a big wmph.

Jamie rises to their feet, and comes to stand between Aeor’s parted thighs. Aeor watches her, unable to rip his eyes away. Jamie puts his hands on his hips, and looks down at Aeor.

“How do you feel, Aeor?”

Aeor swallows hard. It takes a lot of effort to get words out. “Good,” he manages to say. “Safe.”

Jamie pauses for a moment, before her expression softens just a little.

“That’s right, Aeor,” they say. “You’re safe with me. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m never going to hurt you.”

Then, Jamie grins at him. “Unless you ask me to, of course,” she jokes.

Aeor blinks, before a slow frown spreads across his face.

“…Why?”

Jamie bites her lip, clearly trying not to laugh. “I’ll explain later,” they say. “Don’t even worry about it.”

And he doesn’t. The frown leaves his face. It makes Jamie laugh a little more, but this time, it sounds fond.

“What do you want, Aeor?” Jamie asks.

Aeor’s eyes fall from Jamie’s face. He- well, he does know what he wants. He wants Jamie to touch him. But he can’t just ask that! He… he doesn’t really know. He wants Jamie to touch him, and he wants something to be done about the erection he’s got, but he could do that himself, should he ask to leave…?

But he doesn’t want to. His lip wobbles, and suddenly, there’s a hand on his chin. Jamie tilts Aeor’s head back up to look her in her eyes.

“Be a good boy and be honest,” they instruct him. “You can trust me. I will not judge you. I will not hurt you. Tell me what you want.”

“Touch me?”

It tips out of Aeor’s mouth before he can think of whether he should say it or not. He wasn’t going to, he was going to keep that to himself, but… Jamie told him to be honest. And it feels good to do what Jamie says.

“Oh, good boy,” Jamie says. “Where?”

Aeor shivers, and puts his hands lightly over his own ribs. “Here…?”

Jamie’s expression softens again. He nods, and Aeor blinks as Jamie clambers into his lap without hesitation, settling there, and she quickly and easily undoes the buttons of Aeor’s shirt.

“Oh, you’re wearing layers,” Jamie comments, only surprised for a moment before they take it in stride and smile about it, slipping Aeor’s shirt off his shoulders. “Alright, Aeor, lets get this singlet off you too.”

Aeor feels a little too leaden to move properly, but he does shrug his shirt off, and Jamie shucks it aside.

Then, Jamie tilts her head.

“Aeor,” he says. “Be a good boy and take off your undershirt?”

Aeor’s body moves before his mind thinks. He sits up, tugging the thing over his head, and Jamie whistles low when it comes away and Aeor’s bare chest and stomach is revealed.

“Wow,” she says, and she runs her hands over Aeor’s stomach even before he’s dropped the shirt, and it makes Aeor gasp and flinch just a little before he melts back against the sofa, letting Jamie lean over him, letting Jamie take up his personal space. “Wow, you weren’t kidding when you said you were strong.”

Jamie’s hands trail up his body, and Aeor moans again when they squeeze his tits.

“Do you like being touched like this, Aeor?” Jamie asks. “Be a good boy and tell me the truth.”

“Yeah,” Aeor replies instantly, his head tipping back against the back of the sofa, and Jamie grins as she squeezes and pinches his tits. “Y-yeah… I like… I like being f-felt up…”

“Good boy,” Jamie grinds down on him, and Aeor gasps and moans and bucks up against Jamie without hesitation, he does it mindlessly. God, the contact feels so good. He wants more. He wants whatever Jamie will give him.

Jamie gasps when he does that, though, and grinds down on him again, slower this time.

“Oh, Martha wasn’t lying,” Jamie whispers. “You’re big.”

A little fuzzy thought pokes at Aeor, then. Martha said? Martha h-had talked about… about how big his cock is to Jamie?

“Be a good boy and don’t worry about it,” Jamie tells him, and those thoughts don’t worry him anymore. Aeor offers Jamie a soft little smile instead, and it makes Jamie’s expression sharpen into something hungry. God. Jamie wants him. Jamie’s looking at him with desire.

Aeor’s still n-not used to being desired.

Well, he can expect it from his spouses. Because they chose him. They married him, for god’s sake. They’ve proven their want over the years over and over again, and Aeor trusts that. But he thought… what? That he was lucky? That he’d found the two people in the whole world who could have seen him that way?

But here’s Jamie. A newer friend, but a fast friend, and this is happening now and it feels right and Jamie’s looking at him like that, and… and Aeor trusts that too. Aeor wants Jamie’s hands. Aeor feels desired by Jamie, and… that feels good.

“In fact, good boys don’t even really need to think,” Jamie continues, even as she continues to play with his chest. “Good boys tell me what they want, and don’t worry about anything else. Good boys obey their instincts. Good boys obey my words.”

Jamie grins down at him.

“Are you a good boy, Aeor?”

“Yes,” Aeor arches his back, pressing himself into Jamie’s hands, begging for more, really. “Yes!”

“Good boys tell me they’re good boys,” Jamie says as she lowers her head, and Aeor can feel his breath ghosting over his nipple, and it makes Aeor whine.

“I’m a good boy,” Aeor tells Jamie, mouth moving automatically. He didn’t even have to think, it just… happened. “I’m…?”

“Say it again,” Jamie tells him, voice husky with want. “Keep saying it.”

“I’m a good boy,” Aeor repeats. “I-I’m a-!”

He cuts himself off only to groan, as Jamie finally latches their lips over his nipple and sucks. God, that feels- it feels weird but it feels really good and Aeor’s hips buck up again as Jamie pinches the other nipple, twisting it in their fingers as they suck on his tits, and fuck!

“A-a good boy…” Aeor manages to finish, even though he’s slurring his words now, and he’s struggling to swallow. “I’m a good… g-good boy.”

Jamie swaps nipples, and runs his spare hand down Aeor’s side for good measure. Aeor’s mouth just feels like it’s permanently hanging open.

He swallows again. The movement is slow and lethargic.

Jamie’s eyes were fixed on his face, and they pull away from his tit with a smile.

“You can drool if you want,” Jamie tells him. “It’s something that happens to good boys. They feel so good and think so little that they just drool all over themselves. You can do that. You should.”

Aeor nods slowly. Jamie sits up, now, swapping to playing with his nipples with her fingers, and leans in, studying his face, before she smiles again.

“Aeor,” she says. “Do you like kisses?”

Aeor nods.

“Do you want me to kiss you?”

Aeor nods again.

“Be a good boy and ask for it.”

Aeor lurches forward a little, managing only a slurred, “Kiss me?”

It’s enough, though. Jamie smiles and leans in the rest of the way, slotting their mouths together, and Aeor moans as Jamie escalates the kiss immediately. They’re a good kisser. They’re a very good kisser. His tongue is- it’s so good, Aeor can’t even think about how good it is, he can only just try to clumsily keep up, and he wants to touch Jamie, too, he wants to put his hands on Jamie’s hips-!

When they break away for air, Aeor chases the kiss, and even as he’s still panting against her lips, asks, “c’n I touch you?”

“Do you want to?”

“Uh huh,” Aeor whines, nodding just a little so his lips don’t have to leave Jamie’s more than needed. “Wanna hold you.”

Jamie takes a moment, before she nods too.

“You can touch me,” he says. “Good boy for telling me what you want.”

Aeor shudders, and puts his hands on their hips, pulling Jamie in closer so they’re pressed together. Jamie gasps as Aeor moves her easily.

“Woah,” they say. “God, you are strong.”

“Kiss?” Aeor begs again, bumping his nose against theirs.

Aeor feels their smile as Jamie gives him what he’s looking for. The kisses feel so good. Aeor moans into it as Jamie just… takes what he wants from Aeor. And Aeor wants to give it. Aeor wants t-to…

They break the kiss.

Jamie leans back, breathing a little hard herself now, and smiles so sweetly at Aeor.

“What do you want to do now?” she asks. “Anything you want.”

“I want to obey,” Aeor replies honestly.

And the look on Jamie’s face! Jamie’s eyes widen and sparkle, that smile grows more genuine and amazed, and she practically shines with delight.

“You do, do you?”

“I do,” Aeor says, nodding. “I want to obey.”

“You’re such a good boy,” Jamie coos at him. “Fuck, you’re so fucking good. Shit, Aeor, I could just fuck you stupid and you’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

Aeor nods. He’d let them do anything.

“Good boy,” Jamie says, hungrily. “God, you’re so good. Be a good boy and take off your underwear.”

And Jamie scrambles off him, starts shedding her own clothes with great speed, their intent clear. Aeor practically just… lifts his hips, wiggles out of his boxers and kicks them off, and… he’s… he’s naked now. On the sofa. With Jamie.

God, he’s so hard.

Jamie turns back, and whistles again.

“Holy shit, you’re huge!” he exclaims. “Aeor, you were holding out on me.”

Aeor blinks slowly, before he looks down too, just… yeah, he is, sure. It’s just because he’s a big guy. Everything about him is big. He’s bigger than… well his only other experience is Thomas. And he’s bigger than his husband. But his husband and his wife expressed surprise and delight too, so it must be odd.

Aeor’s used to being oddly big. But h-he likes it when it’s something they …like.

Jamie settles across his thighs, wraps a hand around his cock and grins as Aeor bucks up into their grip.

“God, Martha must look amazing taking this,” Jamie muses. “And Thomas too? Damn.”

“Y-yeah,” Aeor admits even as his eyes roll. “T-they both look s-so good.”

“You’ll have to let me see sometime,” Jamie grins, and shifts forward, starts to line herself up over his cock.

“W-wait,” Aeor’s hands go to Jamie’s hips, and hold them there, stopping them from sinking down.

“What’s wrong?” Jamie asks, studying his face.

Aeor has to really reach for the word. “…C-condom?”

Jamie blinks once, twice, before a wry smile tugs at his mouth.

“You’re so conscientious,” they say. “Alright, we’ll use a condom. You got one on hand?”

Aeor nods, lifts one hand off Jamie’s hip so he can point at his abandoned trousers.

“Wallet,” he says.

Jamie climbs off him again, and picks up Aeor’s pants, fishing around until he finds Aeor’s wallet. Flipping it open, she finds… a few condoms in the section for storing notes.

“You’re prepared, Aeor,” she jokes, and takes two of them for good measure before dropping the trousers and the wallet on the floor and approaching Aeor again, who hasn’t moved but is watching her closely.

Jamie casts one aside on the couch, and rips the other one open, rolling it down Aeor’s length with the ease of someone who’s done this many times before. Aeor whines as Jamie’s fingers barely touch him, and Jamie laughs as his cock twitches.

“Good boys let their minds fade away,” Jamie tells him, and Aeor can’t bring himself to close his mouth as he just watches Jamie keep talking. She moves slowly, settling back into his lap, lining Aeor up.

She slowly sinks down on him and Aeor lets his nails dig in.

“G-good boys fuck their minds away,” Jamie says, as they take their time, moving at a snail’s pace. “Good boys have cock for brains. Good boys obey.”

Jamie hilts themself on him, now. And she holds herself there, bracing himself on Aeor’s pelvis as they have to take the time to adjust.

“Fuck,” he whispers, and Aeor moans as Jamie’s walls clench around him. “Fuck, Aeor, you’re so big…”

Aeor… Aeor whimpers. This feels so good. This is what he wanted, he thinks. Or… no, he doesn’t think. He just knows that he should be doing whatever makes Jamie feel good. And Jamie looks like he’s enjoying himself, full of Aeor’s cock.

“I…” Aeor says, and Jamie looks up at him, clearly not expecting him to talk. “I’m a good boy.”

Jamie’s eyes widen before she smirks at him, sardonic and sharp.

“You are,” she says. “You’re such a good boy. Be a good boy and hold still, now, okay?”

Aeor… Aeor blinks, his mouth slack, a-and the drool pooling there finally tips over. H-he… he had expected to be told to... to fuck them? He wants to.

Jamie braces himself on Aeor properly, and slowly starts to ride him.

“Shit,” Jamie moans openly. “Fuck, you feel fuckin’ amazing, Aeor. I’m so fuckin’ full.”

Aeor can only hold on, watching and drooling as thinking gets harder and harder. It’s gone from cotton wool to… to…

He can’t… he doesn’t have the words to describe it. It just feels warm and soft and good, and Aeor can sink into it.

“T-that’s right,” Jamie purrs. “Be a good boy and sink for me. Drop deep. All that matters is me fucking myself on your cock, and my pretty words. You’re such a good boy for me, Aeor.”

Aeor wants to fuck Jamie. The rougher kind of fuck that his spouses like – he wants to do that, but he can’t… he can’t move. All that energy feeds back on itself, the simmering arousal, and Aeor moans louder and louder as Jamie keeps her rhythm so goddamn slow.

“You want more, don’t you?” Jamie grins at him, even as their voice shakes as they hit a good spot. “I c-can see it in your eyes. You want me to go faster, you want to flip us over. We’ll do that next time. But the first time is important, Aeor. You have to prove how good you are to me. You have to prove you’re ready. That you’re not going to fight my control. Be a good boy and let me use you how I want.”

Aeor crumbles. He slumps back, his grip loosening. Any desire to take control of the situation drips away. Drips away like the drool down his chin.

It becomes hard to focus, now. Jamie keeps talking, but the actual substance of what they say starts slipping away. Aeor watches her lips move, watches the way his cock sinks into her over and over, and his brain just… empties.

“’M a good boy,” he says.

…Jamie must have prompted him.

“M’a good boy…” he says again, and it’s true. He is. He’s a good boy and he does what Jamie says, even when he doesn’t understand.

His eyes roll back into his head as they clench around him, cumming. Jamie’s nails dig in, and Aeor hears him moan, but otherwise, he’s hardly aware that Jamie has orgasmed, so lost in his own empty-minded bliss himself.

“I-I’m-!” he whimpers, and he has the passing urge to fuck up into Jamie, but his body is so heavy and the desire melts away as Jamie starts to ride him again, now a bit faster. “I-I’m a good boy! I’m a good boy!”

“Listen to me.”

Aeor hears them, tilting his head back up to he can look at Jamie with hazy eyes. He feels so good. He feels on the edge of orgasm. H-he wants to cum. He wants to cum.

Jamie’s face is flushed, glinting with sweat, but her eyes are bright and alert, and she grins at him even as she pants.

“You’re a good boy,” they say.

Aeor nods desperately.

“You do what I say.”

More nodding.

“You’re a good boy. Good boys obey.”

Aeor keeps nodding.

“If you can say that three times,” Jamie grins at him, breaking rhythm to grind on Aeor, which makes him whimper and whine, “then I might let you cum.”

Aeor gasps, and tries to remember what Jamie said.

“Aw, it’s so hard for you,” Jamie pouts at him, teasing, and they kiss his nose. “Don’t worry, I’ll help you. Repeat after me.”

Aeor nods.

“You’re a good boy.”

“M’a good boy…”

“You do what I say.”

“I-I do what you say.”

Jamie looks so triumphant. “You’re a good boy.”

“I’m a good boy!” Aeor has that one down.

“Good boys obey.”

“Good boys obey,” Aeor slurs. Oh, it feels so good. That feels nice to say. And the rhyme… it’s, um, fun.

“You know what that is, Aeor?” Jamie asks, and Aeor manages to shake his head. “It’s a mantra. It’s something you can say for me over and over, that you know is true, so you can remember how to be a good boy for me. Be a good boy and say it for me, all on your own.”

Aeor manages to swallow, trying to reach through the fog and haze to string multiple sentences together.

"I'm…” he takes a shuddery breath. “I’m a good boy… I do what you say.”

Jamie tweaks his nipples. “Keep going,” she orders.

Aeor’s cock twitches inside her, and it makes her grin.

“I-I’m a good boy!” Aeor sounds so desperate right now, even as his body is so slack and relax, and he can’t do much more than speak. “Good boys obey!”

Jamie latches back onto his nipple, but just before she does, he prompts Aeor, “one more time.”

Aeor’s eyes roll and cross and roll, trying to ground himself in an overwhelming sea of hazy bliss, that’s boiling into desperate arousal, and he’s losing himself in it, falling and falling as he says Jamie’s mantra – as he does what he’s told.

“I’m a good boy, I do what you say.”

Jamie moves their hips even faster.

“I’m a good boy, g-good boys – fuck!” Aeor’s drooling, Aeor’s crying, he doesn’t know when the tears started, he’s so fucking empty and he’s so fucking needy and he wants and he wants and he wants. “Good boys obey!”

Jamie pulls her mouth off Aeor’s chest just to openly moan as she cums again. Their head throws back, his back arches, he clenches around Aeor, and Aeor practically sobs.

“I’m a good boy!” he begs again. “I do what you say! I’m a good boy, good boys obey?”

Jamie, even through the euphoria of orgasm, opens her eyes as the afterglow sets in, watching him curiously.

“I-I’m a good boy, I do what you say.” Tears are flowing freely now. J-Jamie had promised he could cum, he wants to cum. “I’m a good boy, good boys obey!”

“Fuck, that’s so hot,” Jamie whispers. “You’re so fucking good.”

Aeor’s chest heaves with his sob. He wants nothing more. His whole brain, his whole being is centred o-on obeying Jamie, on being good enough for Jamie that Jamie will let him cum.

“I’m a good boy, I do what you say, I’m a good boy, g-good boys obeyyyy.” Aeor’s hands tighten on Jamie. “Good boys obey. Good boys obey. G-good boys obey!”

His whining. He should be ashamed. He can’t be, though. There’s no way he can be. Not right now.

Jamie tuts at him.

“I’m being so mean, aren’t I?” she hums, cupping his face, thumbing away his tears. Aeor stares back at her, whimpering pathetically. “I’m being so mean, and you’re being so good. Do you promise to obey? To fall deep into this trance when I ask you to?”

“Yes,” Aeor promises, not even sure what she’s asking, but if it means he can cum, if it means he can be good, he’ll say anything. “Promise.”

“You promise to fall into such a deep trance when I call you a good boy?”

“Y-yes! I’m a good boy!” Aeor wishes he could move. It’s a fresh kind of the most perfect agony to not be able to move right now, even as Jamie- Jamie isn’t even riding him anymore. She’s warming his cock, waiting for him to give in and give them everything. “G-good boys do what you say!”

Jamie rakes her nails up Aeor’s chest. He cries out for it. Everything feels so much, he feels on fire.

“You promise to be mine?”

“Yes!” Aeor practically screams. “Yes! Yours!”

Jamie leans in. He kisses Aeor’s throat, kisses the seam of his jaw, kisses under his ear. T-then they lick the shell of his ear, and Aeor shudders, it makes the feeling of their breath there so much more obvious.

Aeor shakes with anticipation, his face scrunched up right.

Jamie purrs it into his ear, into his brain.

“Be a good boy and cum for me.”

Aeor screams. It hits him so hard and good and his vision goes white, he cums, he empties himself into the condom, and Jamie groans deep in her throat and rubs her clit frantically, trying to milk one more orgasm himself out of the sensation of Aeor cumming in them. And she manages it, and it makes Aeor cry and moan as their clenching walls draw his orgasm out even longer. Aeor d-doesn’t even know which way is up and which way is down. He just knows he’s good, and he’s Jamie’s.

As Aeor’s cock finally softens, as he begins to come down from his high, Jamie pulls off him, carefully removes the condom and ties it off.

Aeor can’t move. He just melts there, bonelessly.

“This was a very good first session,” Jamie says happily. “You’re a very good boy for me, Aeor. We’ve got a lot of fun ahead of us.”

Aeor can only moan in response. His brain is still fuzzy and hazy and empty. His cock manages to twitch just a little, but he’s so spent. He’s exhausted.

“Can you say your mantra one more time, just for me?” Jamie asks, and she’s… she’s back in his lap.

Aeor’s eyes are open, but he’s not looking anything. He stares glassily ahead as he drones, “I’m a good boy… I do what you say. I’m a good boy, good boys obey.”

Jamie kisses him.

“Good boy,” she croons. “Go have a shower. Tidy yourself up. Put some clean clothes on. When you finish, you will forget everything that has happened. But you’ll remember how good I make you feel when you obey, when I tell you you’re a good boy and you drop for me. Do you understand?”

Aeor nods. It’s all he can do.

“Good.” Jamie climbs off him, stands there with his hands on his hips. “Be a good boy and do as I say.”

Aeor stands mechanically. He pauses to gather his clothes off the floor, and – still naked – shuffles his way towards his and Thomas’ and Martha’s bedroom, and more importantly, their ensuite.

Jamie watches him go with a wicked grin and the satisfaction of a job well done.

[thevindicativevordan]

Comics this week?

Dealing with some medical issues so I might not be as active for a bit.

Ultimate Spider-Man #3 - Oh Peter, are you even trying to keep your identity a secret? First he all but tells Ben and Jonah that he’s the guy in black the Bugle is focusing on, then he gets outed by Harry because Harry controls his suit’s tech in the wake of taking over Stark’s Company. Hmmm kinda feel like that’s setting up Peter to ditch the picotech and go with a homemade/cloth suit. I’m dying to see how the Parker/Osborn double date goes now that Peter and Harry know each other’s secret identity. How soon before MJ and Gwen find out what their husbands are up to (I was thrilled to see Gwen was married to Harry in 6160). Loved the scene with Peter taking May swinging through the city, that’s muh Spider-Man. MJ and Richard clearly suspect something is up, and with the rate Peter is botching keeping his identity a secret, it's only a matter of time until one or both of them learn what he's been up to.

Tec #1083 - Over the years I’ve grown tired of the “Batman always wins” mantra, but this? This struck a chord with me. Bruce is full of sorrows but no regrets. Batman understanding that he could fail, but choosing to try anyway? Moved me in the same way PKJ recently did with Superman in the Warworld Saga. And I loved the line “people shouldn’t have to look UP for hope and salvation. They should merely have to look AROUND.”

The Flash #7 - Recent medical bills have forced me to drop this.

Incredible Hulk #10 - Decent backstory exposition for the Frozen Charlotte. Not sure if Earls can pull off the kind of fight scene this arc needs though.

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Hunteri Heroici: Part Two

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.1k

Warnings: canon angst and violence

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. Any and all comments on these are appreciated.

When you get to the roof, Sam looks over the edge of the building to see where the man must have landed. You're off to the side holding Joanna's hand since she is too heavy for you to carry right now. You look up and see Amara walking over to you from the crowd of people on the roof.

"I know your relationship with Castiel. Don't let him get too close to you. He's still an angel whether he wants to play as one or not. He will see that something is wrong here."

"So, you admit something is wrong here?" you ask out loud, not caring that anyone can hear you, and apparently, your husband and the angel did.

"No, I'm saying he will try to go looking for something that isn't here. What I'm doing is perfectly safe. You have nothing to worry about."

"You always say that. Please, find a new mantra," you roll your eyes.

"Who are you talking to?" Castiel asks when he walks over to you.

Before you can say anything, Dean answers for you.

"Amara. Like how Sam saw Lucifer."

"Are you serious?" Castiel asks, looking at you.

"It's fine, Castiel. I have it all under control."

You look to the right of you, and Amara isn't there anymore. She has a habit of disappearing whenever it's convenient for her. You're still not sure how to conjure her up on your own, so you have to rely on her for right now.

"This looks like suicide," Sam says, bringing everyone back on the matter at hand.

"It was. The guy left a note. He invested everything in Roman Industries and lost it all when they crashed and burned last year."

"So why did you call us?" Dean asks.

"Because I have two witnesses who swear that Madoff floated in mid-air for a good ten seconds, he looked down, and splat. Not sure I buy that, but the way they're talking, it sounds like something straight out of a cartoon. You said you wanted something weird."

"Thanks."

"She's right about this being right out of a cartoon. The whole heart jumping out of the guy's chest and the delayed fall sounds like Bugs Bunny."

"So, we're looking for some sort of insect-rabbit hybrid? How do we kill it?" Castiel asks seriously.

"No, we don't, Cas. That's a character, like Woody Woodpecker or Daffy Duck."

"They're little animated movies. You know, the coyote chases a roadrunner, and then the anvil gets dropped on his head," Dean laughs.

"Is it supposed to be funny?"

"No," Dean loses his smile. "It's hilarious."

"Come on, Castiel, we'll show you all kinds of cartoons back at the motel."

There is nothing left to do here except for more research, and you're not going to get that by standing on a roof. You have your dad's books, John's journal, and other books you've collected over the years from other hunters. Now that you know the pattern of the murders, you have an idea of what to look for.

When you get back to the motel, Castiel turns the TV on to some cartoons, and you set up the portable potty for Joanna. You really need her to start training, and you heard that watching cartoons helps for some reason. Once you got that set up, you sit Joanna up and let her go on her own terms--if she even is going to go.

"Okay, Jo, try and go potty for Mommy, okay. Can you do that?"

"Okay," she nods.

"Good girl," you smile.

You walk to the couch and sit down, laying back to give yourself a break. Castiel and Joanna laugh at the cartoons as if they're both little kids. Castiel didn't grow up with humans, so he finds pleasure in the small things like a child would. It's pure to watch and hear.

"I have no idea what we're hunting," Dean sighs. "Maybe it's a Tulpa. Maybe it's some crazy God who watched too much Robot Chicken. I mean, is there a link between the two guys?"

"Not that I can find."

"Alright, well, I'm gonna call it," Dean shuts the journal he was reading and looks at Castiel. "Cas, you gonna book a room or what?"

"No, I'll stay here."

"Oh, okay. Yeah. We'll have a slumber party and braid Sam's hair." You and Sam smile at his joke, but Castiel doesn't. "Where are you gonna sleep?"

"I don't sleep."

"Okay, well, I need my four hours."

"I'll watch over you."

Castiel doesn't seem to understand the problem that Dean is having, and it's kind of funny to watch.

"That's not gonna happen."

Suddenly, Castiel stands up and places his fingers at his temple as if he hears something you don't.

"Something's coming across the police band. A bank has been robbed. It sounds loony."

"Define loony."

"You mentioned anvils before, and I'm pretty sure someone was killed by one."

You groan at having to go out again, but you know it's necessary. You get up and walk over to Joanna who looks up at you.

"Did you go?"

"No, mama."

"Okay, we'll try later."

You lift her off the toilet and pack it away, making sure she is dressed as she was before. Your entire group heads to the bank to meet with Detective Glass who is already there. Dean is carrying Joanna inside, shielding her from what's inside the middle of the bank. There is an anvil on the ground, but someone has been crushed by it. There are guts and blood everywhere on the ground.

"That's loony, alright," Sam comments.

"Agents. I was just about to give you a ring," Detective Glass says as she greets you. "I have to ask, do you folks chase the crazy, or does the crazy chase you?"

"Depends on the day," you smile. "Who's the deceased?"

"A security guard. He called in reporting a robbery, but by the time we got here, he was dead."

"A robbery?"

"Looks like the 'Black Hole' was trying to jimmy open a safe-deposit box when the security guard found him. Well, you can see what happened."

"Black hole?"

"It's our name for a burglar that's been running us ragged. He's a pro. He leaves no fingerprints, never any sign of forced entry, and just a pair of those every time like he's signing his work." She points to the black hole that's been drawn on the wall. "Perp's never done anything like this before, though."

"Do you mind if I take a look at your files on those other break-ins?" Sam asks.

"No skin off my nose. I'm headed to the station now if you want a ride."

"Perfect."

Detective Glass and Sam head out of the bank while you, Dean, and Castiel stay inside the bank. The CSI unit is finished with their pictures, so as soon as you're alone, Dean turns to Castiel who is leaning on the counter.

"Can you lift this?"

Castiel moves to the anvil, gripping it easily and moving it to the side with no effort whatsoever. Just like you and Dean suspected, there is a black X is marked on the floor.

"X marks the spot. Well, whoever's doing this is playing by cartoon rules."

"Animation doesn't have rules."

"Sure it does. In Toontown, a pretty girl can make your heart leap out of your chest, anvils fall from the sky, and if you draw a door or a black hole on the wall, you can stroll right through it. The thief must have drawn that black hole and was able to get through it and escape it."

Castiel walks over to the black hole and touches it, but it's a solid wall.

"Then why isn't it working now?"

"I don't know. None of this makes much sense, but someone here is causing all of this to happen. I don't know about you, but Joanna needs to sleep, so I need to take her back to the motel now."

"We should all go. I'll text Sam."

You three leave and let Sam stay at the police station because he might find something over there. It's getting pretty late, so all you can think about is sleep. The building where the man committed suicide didn't have a working elevator, so you're tired from walking up all those stairs.

This motel has a separate room with beds, so you set up Joanna's toddler bed inside that room to keep her away from the noisy room. Dean and Castiel are talking in the main room, and you're tucking in Joanna.

"Tory time," she grins.

"Okay," you nod, trying to think of one. You grin at the first memory that pops into your head. "Once upon a time, your uncle, Sammy, met a girl named Becky. Now, Becky knew about your dad and me and about monsters because she read books about our lives. Well, she had the hugest crush on uncle Sammy. She wouldn't leave him alone until one day, he married her! It was so funny watching him be with her. He doesn't like her very much."

Joanna giggles and your heart sings in happiness.

"Uncle Sammy is okay now, but just know that you can hold this over his head anytime you want." You lean in and kiss her cheeks, standing up. "Go to sleep, my angel."

You turn off the light and gently close the door, beginning to pick up the toys that she scattered across the room. Dean is at the table using Sam's laptop while Castiel is sitting on the couch flipping through John's journal.

"Your father has beautiful handwriting."

"How are you feeling, Castiel?"

"I'm fine."

You look at Dean and silently tell him to pry further, and your husband clears his throat.

"What she means is that, when we got thrown out of Purgatory, it took a few weeks to feel normal again."

"I'm fine," the angel says again.

"Don't get me wrong. We're happy you're back; we're fucking thrilled. It's just this whole mysterious-resurrection thing always has one mother of a downside."

"So, what do you want me to do?" Castiel asks, closing the journal.

"Maybe take a trip upstairs and poke around to see if the God squad can't tell us how you got out."

"No."

"Look, Castiel, we don't like the angels as much as you do, but--"

"I said no!" he shouts a little too loudly.

"Be quiet! I just put Joanna down," you scowl.

"My apologies," he sighs.

You and Dean both head to Castiel and sit next to him, very concerned about him.

"Talk to us."

"Dean, Y/N, when I was... bad... and I had all those things, the leviathans, writhing inside me... I caused a lot of suffering on Earth, but I devastated Heaven. I vaporized thousands of my own kind, and I – I – I can't go back," he stutters emotionally.

"Are you scared the angles will kill you?" you ask softly.

"If I see what Heaven's become... what I made of it," he pauses and takes a deep breath, "I'm scared I might kill myself."

You grab Castiel's hand in comfort, but Sam comes in right before you had a chance to say something else.

"Hey, I got something." If Sam notices the tension in the room, he doesn't comment on it. Castiel takes his hand away from you, and just like that, he's back to ignoring the problem. "So, this black-hole guy, before he tried the bank, he robbed a house across from the park where Gary blew a gasket."

"Do you think the house heist and Gary's corpse are connected?" you ask and stay seated.

"According to the file, they happened at pretty much the exact same time. Check this out." Sam opens and spreads a big map on the table that has black X's marked in three clusters." Here's the house, and Gary died across the street here. The building from this morning is right here."

"What about the others?"

"Well, those are the places where stuff got stolen, but nobody died. Take away the graffiti, and these all look like just normal smash-and-grabs. I made a few phone calls and talked to some people who are nearby neighbors, and they reported a whole lot of crazy."

"Like what?" you ask.

"Like a jogger bumping his head and sprouting a four-inch lump. Or a kid walking into a wall and hearing birdies. Basically, for fifty yards around each robbery, people were living in a cartoon. It didn't last long, though, just for five or ten minutes at each place."

"That's about the length of time it would take a thief to get in and out."

"Exactly, but whatever power he's using, it's not targeted. I mean, it's kind of like an area of effect. Picture him in a bubble of weirdness, and anything that touches it gets daffy."

"So, this Animaniac can step through walls and can toss an anvil?"

"Yeah, but he's warping reality to do it. So, if someone happens to be nearby meeting the girl of his dreams, his heart makes a break for it. Right now, we're looking for a thief and the deposit box he was after. Now, the house, the office, and every place he's hit belong to someone living at the Sunset Fields retirement home."

"Our guy must be there," you comment.

"It's worth a shot."

"Alright. Well, let's gear up. It's wabbit season," Dean grins.

"I don't think you pronounced that correctly," Castiel.

"Let's go in the morning. I'm exhausted," you groan.

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[eolewyn1010]

Dracula shenanigans of the day, 2/2:

Jack and van Hellstoker confer about Renfield; I notice that van Hellstoker has lost his pretty fluent grammar and thesaurus syndrome again to play the Funny Foreigner, but makes a full swing back in only a couple paragraphs. In between those, he goes to see Renfield - alone, because Jack is not a responsible Doctor. Renfield doesn't really care for much smalltalk today though, but I applaud him for insulting van Hellstoker as an idiotic, thick-headed fool. Gee, what a mood swing. Both Jack and van Hellstoker take up the "oh, I'm so glad we keep poor frail womanly Mina in the dark!" talk from Jonathan, as if they hadn't all seen and read up on how Lucy's case went down. Renfield is right; our oh-so-smart author's avatar is amazingly thick-headed.

Not even Mina gets it. Mina. You accompanied Lucy throughout the first stages of her situation. You should be worried about being tired and low-spirited. But no, she has to tell us that her husband only wants the best for her and so she should acquiesce to his wishes, for his decisions are wise. And that she goes to bed when the men tell her to do so. Bleh. Don't even bother, Stoker. Also, she's really depressed about Lucy now - and does just what Lucy did; hide that she's unwell from everyone around. *facepalm* Does anyone in this book ever learn? She has heard "queer sounds" last night btw, but I'm too grumpy to think of a fitting joke. Then, while Renfield was throwing a panic fit in his cell, Dracula crept up on her as a mist and made her lethargic. Shame she had no idea he could do that, what do you know. She does remember weird "dreams" of mist getting into her room, making her unable to move and including two glowy red eyes. She even manages to draw the connection from Jonathan's witnessing Dracula's three housemates dissolving into mist to what she's seen in her room! So close, Mina, so close! But nah, better ask the Doc for sleep-inducing drugs. Don't ever talk about the actual issue.

Jonathan is sleuthing after dirt boxes meanwhile, and comes to learn that Dracula is basically setting himself up all over London. His current lead ends at one of the delivery guys drinking out his brains and not being available for asking, though, so back home it is and better don't pay the slightest thought to your wife not looking all that well. Dumbass. Can they FUCKING stop repeating their "it's so good we kept her out of this" mantra? Who does Stoker think he's kidding? That's not a good Red Herring; that's infuriating bullshit.

In the meantime, Jack tries to understand what's going on with Renfield, and they have a convoluted talk about flies and God and Enoch - basically, about Renfield's desire to become as close to what he perceives a deity as he can possibly get. Jack brings up the question of how the soul could remain undamaged when a life is consumed. This is all highly philosophical and I don't get it, and Renfield would rather not contemplate souls. He's rather upset about the thought, but has enough self-control to stop himself from another outburst. Jack finally catches the brain cell and deduces that Renfield thinks Dracula will give him eternal life. On a more cheerful note, when Jack has towed up van Hellstoker and brought him to Renfield, the latter is "singing gaily" in his cell. Not, perchance, of Dracula? Queer dreams, people! He's also catching flies again and not condescending to talk to the doctors.

Oh, and Arthur gets a short letter from another solictor office Jonathan has been asking about Dracula's real estate acquirings. They're not highly informative, to be honest; they only mention that Dracula is not exactly doing clean and correct business. Probably avoiding taxes, amirite?

[verreprincesse]

@vibraea dreamed: I love reading your HCs. I hope you don't mind if I send a question to hear more of your thoughts on Cinderella! ;v;

What are some bigger goals Cinderella wants to achieve? Before and after she becomes princess? :3c How would she plan on achieving them?

This has taken me so long to answer and I do apologize. Some of it has been because of going back and forth on my answer, laziness, and plain forgetfulness to be very fair. 

As for the bigger goals Ella wanted/wants to achieve, after her father died, she never really thought about it. In the era she lived in and being an unmarried woman, she didn’t believe she had any goals she could achieve. Surviving to the next day, just making it to the next step, that was her mantra in life until she went to the ball. With the abuse she endured she turned inward with herself and basically allowed her body to turn to autopilot. There were times she was in the moment, times when she couldn't bear the injustice of her stepsisters’ antics, but time and time again she found her voice didn’t matter and in that she found she suffered less when her mouth stayed shut.

After the ball when she decided to not return home and instead branched off for her own it took her awhile, but she soon found herself again. Found that the next day was looked forward to even on the dreariest of days. when she married the prince, she was still working on herself as a survivor, as a woman and her husband’s patience and kindness to her helped her tremendously. There were days, for a few years, where she felt like it all would crash down to be just a dream or sometimes, she felt like she didn’t truly belong, or that she was in someone else's body. Trying to cope with a life that was far more luxurious that she had endured sometimes made her thoughts spiral out of control until she had to speak with a doctor. Mental health in her era was still in its infancy of being understood so when doctor after doctor told her and her husband that she was either fine or hysterical they both decided to try things on their own.

They tried many things to help Ella adjust and soon they realized she had her best days when she wrote down her thoughts and had a list of things to do for the day. Thus began her many lessons to being a good princess, royal etiquette, lessons with the kingdom’s history, learning about the kingdom’s military, geography, and many other things. She poured herself into it all and over time, over the course of years she found what worked best for her until she didn’t have to fear the days where she had nothing to do. She still had goals though, much larger that allowed her to see in the distance rather than just the next day. She looks forward to some of her ideas put in place, like a better, more thorough public education system for anyone. She believes that any person, no matter their status should be given the opportunity to better themselves and their family if they choose to do so. Her next goal is to make conditions for farming families to not fear the winter when crops can’t be grown. A better system for storing crops for all in the kingdom so none starve or live on the streets. She never wants another to feel as hopeless as she felt all those years with her stepfamily.